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

  “I’m sorry, Da. There isn’t anyone I can call on today.” When she opened her eyes and saw his dejected expression, his brown eyes as sorrowful as a basset hound that had been cast out in the rain, she softened the blow. Like always. “Perhaps next week I’ll learn of something new.”

  “Next week, then.” He nodded and slowly donned his hat once more, before offering a small smile. “I’ll look around and perhaps find something today. Don’t you worry, Frannie.”

  She swallowed down a rise of churning guilt. “I’ll see you later, Da.”

  Frances watched him turn back and cross the street in the direction of the shipyards. A feeling of dread swirled with the guilt, making her glad she hadn’t eaten. Then again, without food at home and little money, she couldn’t have eaten regardless. And with that thought, she felt a sense of purpose drive away the unpleasant bitterness.

  When she rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Viscount Whitelock standing by the door to Mrs. Hunter’s. She readily dipped into a curtsy. “Good morning, Lord Whitelock.”

  “Miss Thorne, a pleasure as always,” he said, the rich cadence of his voice suggesting a life that wanted for nothing. A long life, well spent. In truth, he was the same age as her father. And—according to what he’d told her when they’d first met—might very well have been her father, if her mother had chosen differently.

  Coincidentally, she’d first encountered the viscount by her mother’s grave. He’d been leaving a spray of forget-me-nots on top of her headstone. When he’d turned to leave, he’d stopped suddenly and stared, wide-eyed, at Frances. It took a moment for him to recover. Then, after an informal introduction, he explained that at one time, both her father and he had vied for her mother’s hand.

  As the accomplished granddaughter of an earl with a modest dowry, Elise easily could have married a peer. Yet she’d chosen love instead. For that, Frances could find no fault in her decision, no matter how many times in recent years she might have wished for fewer worries.

  Lord Whitelock wore the years of his life differently than did her father. The lines of his face were taut and angular, even at his jaw. In contrast, Hugh Thorne was a little softer, with the hint of jowls beginning to form. While Viscount Whitelock was still handsome enough to garner a glance or two from the lady’s maids running errands this morning, her father was more of the cuddly sort.

  “I wonder if I could ask a favor of you,” the viscount said with an open gesture toward the door of Mrs. Hunter’s.

  Frances’s thoughts veered to Mrs. Hunter’s desire to sell more of their paid services. Since meeting him a few months ago, Viscount Whitelock had become a frequent patron. Could it be that he needed to hire a new servant? Turning the key in the lock, she suppressed the urge to blurt out that very question but opted for the more professional response instead. “How may I be of service, my lord?”

  Frances opened the door to allow him inside, but instead, he held the door for her. She didn’t dare argue with a viscount.

  Familiar with Miss Thorne’s schedule, Lucan knew she was an early riser. He, on the other hand, was not. He winced as shards of sunlight sliced over the rooftops and onto the pavement. Nevertheless, he trudged toward Mrs. Hunter’s that morning, waiting to see if Whitelock made an appearance.

  Across the street on the west side of the bakery, Lucan kept to the shadows, his hat low on his brow. That was when he spotted Whitelock’s carriage one street over. After leaving his driver, the viscount appeared to be taking a slow stroll in the direction of the registry.

  Soon enough, Arthur scampered up beside Lucan. The lad started chatting away, and normally, Lucan would listen to every word. Today, however, he found himself distracted by the sight of Miss Thorne, rounding the corner. While her serviceable, common, work-a-day lavender dress in no way hinted at her noble bloodlines, the subtle elegance of her carriage and the graceful lines of her shoulders and throat revealed a mark of innate quality to anyone who paid close attention. Most of all, it was quite clear that she did not belong here, working for a pittance and finding servants to work in the ton’s townhouses. No, she should be hiring servants to fill her own house instead. But she’d had no one looking out for her, not Quinlin, not her father, only Lucan, albeit without any direct interference.

  In all the years of his acquaintance with Miss Thorne, Lucan had maintained a respectable distance, making an effort to keep his flirtatious teasing to a minimum. So why—after scarcely encountering her these last two years—was he suddenly unable to stay away?

  The reasonable explanation was that he needed to discover why Whitelock was returning here so often of late. Yet Lucan wasn’t entirely certain his motivation was solely driven by Whitelock. It might have something to do with the way Miss Thorne had adjusted her spectacles yesterday . . .

  His thoughts drifted as he pondered this unforeseen distraction. However, the moment he saw Miss Thorne enter the empty shop with Whitelock and no chaperone, he became fully alert. He did not like the idea of her being alone with Whitelock. Flipping Arthur a coin for tea and a glazed bun, Lucan sent him on his way. The lad should not witness what he was about to do.

  Using the skills he’d acquired at school during years of sneaking in and out of the dormitory, not to mention a few bedrooms in the years that followed, Lucan crept between the back of Mrs. Hunter’s shop and the neighboring one and then deftly scaled the brick. The aging façade gave him ample toeholds, but not all of them were secure. Yet in the end, he slipped in through a tiny upper-floor window.

  He crept to the open doorway at the top of the stairs in time to hear Whitelock say, “You set a fine example, Miss Thorne. I can see that you adhere to your own counsel by never allowing the merest suggestion of impropriety.”

  A breath of relief rushed out of Lucan. That’s my girl, he thought, feeling a wealth of pride an instant before taking note of his own words. My girl? Now where had that come from? It was peculiar, to say the least. Yet for now, he shrugged it off and renewed his focus on the conversation below stairs.

  Inside, the shop was dark, with slashes of light slipping through narrow wooden slats and spreading across the hardwood floor. Frances walked to the box window to open the shutters and let in the light.

  After Viscount Whitelock’s compliment about her fine example, she allowed herself a small smile at the perceptible praise in his tone. It was always nice to be appreciated, especially after the debacle of stomping on his foot. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He removed his hat. At his age, a full head of neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair was quite the asset and complemented his regal bone structure. But more than that, he possessed an aura of kindness. She’d never known a lord and master to take such a keen interest in ensuring that the women in his employ were tutored on the art of defense. In fact, in her dealings with the servant trade, she’d found the opposite was true. In some instances, the one person a maid needed to fear the most was the master of the house.

  “It may seem rather greedy of me, but I have come here today to request more of your time.” He took a step into the room but remained standing on the outer rim of light that spilled onto the floor. “The excitement of these lessons has stormed through my townhouse like a carnival at Covent Garden. I’m certain it will only be a matter of time before the maids at one or more of my country estates will desire to be included as well.”

  “Such news is an honor to learn, my lord. My greatest hope is that I will be here at Mrs. Hunter’s for a long while to come.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she hadn’t allowed herself to continue past my lord.

  The lines surrounding his shrewd gaze drew together. “Is there a reason why you shouldn’t be? I do hope it has nothing to do with our brief encounter.”

  “No, my lord,” she said immediately, feeling the heat of embarrassment in her cheeks. “Although, I would like to apologize again, and I hope your foot was not too injured.”

  “As you see, I’ve no need of a cane as of yet, and I re
fuse to hear another word of your apology,” he said with firm sincerity. “Now, I will hazard a guess that the similar agency that opened down the street might have something to do with the uncertain nature of your situation.”

  Glad that Mrs. Hunter was not here, Frances offered a tentative nod.

  “Ah. Well, then that brings me to the other reason I came to see you this morning.” He paused long enough to spark her interest. “Since my beloved wife is bound to her rooms, her greatest pleasure is having someone read to her. I enjoy doting on her, and if I could, I would be with her all day, but alas . . . I cannot. Many people depend on me.”

  Lucan held back a wry laugh. Whitelock was a humble man, to be sure, but one who wanted everyone to know his sacrifices. The man was skilled in his delivery. Charming, even. He almost made a person want to believe that his heart was pure, and he had nothing to gain by helping others. Lucan had been taken in, after all. At least, at first.

  Listening closely, however, he was finding this paragon difficult to believe. Whitelock was up to something, and Lucan didn’t like the nature of the suspicions tossing back and forth in his head. To him, it sounded like a veiled attempt at an assignation with Miss Thorne. But surely even Whitelock wouldn’t make such an offer. Thus far, there had been no rumors about him in a scandalous vein. And yet . . .

  The low timbre of Whitelock’s voice made the hair on the back of Lucan’s neck stand on end. Without thinking, he took a step forward. His foot landed on a loose board, which creaked beneath him.

  “I could compile a list of suitable candidates for your lordship to interview,” Frances said.

  “I knew you could, Miss Thorne,” the viscount said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but with his next words, the reason became clear. “The problem is, I will only be in town for a short duration. In fact, I leave within the week for the estate I mentioned. With all that’s to be done in the meantime, I’m not certain I could give interviews. The more I think on it, however, I believe that you would be the perfect candidate.”

  She didn’t know what to say. On one hand, she didn’t want to lose her job at Mrs. Hunter’s. She enjoyed the additional service that she provided, even if it didn’t bring in any coin.

  Yet on the other hand, Lord Whitelock had made her a generous offer by excluding all other potential applicants in favor of her. “I’m honored, my lord, but I—”

  Frances broke off when she heard a noise from above. She glanced toward the narrow staircase, absently wondering if she’d left one of the windows open yesterday. Then thinking back, she knew she’d closed them because she’d had to stuff the scandalous booklet between the back window and sill when Mrs. Hunter had come to hurry her along.

  The sound was likely just a mouse.

  Drawing her attention again, Viscount Whitelock removed a slender case from his inner breast pocket. The gold glinted in the sunlight. “I’m merely extending a courtesy to one whose mother was a dear, dear friend of mine.” He stepped forward and offered her a calling card.

  Grateful beyond words, Frances took it. He could have no idea how his offer had removed a great burden from her shoulders, although she hoped she would never need use it.

  “Present this at my door, day or night, Miss Thorne. I will always have a place for you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Inclining his head, he donned his hat and left her alone in the office. Frances smiled to herself, gratified at having been right about her impression of the viscount. Had she known there were such gentlemen in the world, she might not have become so jaded. She wished there were more men like him.

  “I am honored, my lord, but I—”

  Lucan had almost been able to feel Miss Thorne’s gaze on him through the floor. Beneath the fine lawn of his shirt, his skin prickled. He’d held his breath and felt his heart thrum inside his chest. Slowly, he’d eased off the floorboard and took a backward step toward the window. Just in case she came up the stairs, he’d wanted a quick escape. Yet he hadn’t wanted to leave until Whitelock was gone and she was safe.

  Then, the viscount said something that earned Lucan’s surprise. “I’m merely extending a courtesy to one whose mother was a dear, dear friend of mine.”

  Whitelock had never mentioned the acquaintance. If that were true, then why hadn’t Whitelock come forward himself in Thorne’s defense years ago?

  It was past time that Lucan had some real answers. And now that he knew Thorne and Whitelock were connected by Thorne’s late wife, Lucan knew exactly where to get them.

  When Whitelock and Miss Thorne’s conversation concluded, Lucan turned toward the open window. That was when he spotted a palm-sized booklet on the floor. Bending down, he picked it up, wondering where it had come from. There were no tables nearby, and the chairs were on the other side of the room. The room was neat and tidy, therefore not likely to have errant papers littering the floor.

  Then suddenly, he noticed a small corner of torn paper stuck to the window casing. That was where the booklet had been? Apparently, he’d disturbed it upon entering. He would take care to return it when he left.

  But why would anyone keep a booklet stuffed in between the sash and the casing? Studying the object more closely, however, presented another question. Had Miss Thorne been the one who’d hidden this book of sketches?

  After his meeting with Arthur yesterday, Lucan had felt an uncanny need to come back to the street that evening to keep an eye on Miss Thorne. Because of that, he knew she’d been the last one to leave and close up the shop. Thumbing through the book, he wondered if Miss Thorne had an interest in the tailoring of men’s fashions. Or perhaps her interest was of a more primitive nature.

  She was seven and twenty, after all. Not the age of a debutante but of a full-grown woman. A woman, likely, with needs and desires. A woman whose spectacles and smoky eyes guarded all sorts of mysteries.

  Hearing her on the stairs now, he slipped back through the window. It wasn’t until he was on the ground that he realized he still held that booklet. Tucking it into his pocket, he grinned up at the window. He would simply return it during their next encounter.

  He was already looking forward to it.

  She didn’t want Mrs. Hunter to catch her staring at the calling card, so Frances hastily tucked it into the pocket she’d sewn into her calico dress. Giving it pat, she lifted her gray apron from the hook. She put it on, the letter H embroidered above her left breast, and tied the ribbons in the back.

  Frances took pride in her daily uniform. While some with an aristocratic bloodline might be tempted to dress above their current station, she was not one to put on airs. She accepted her altered circumstances and strove to perform her job to the best of her ability. After all, she held a position of great importance and enjoyed her labors, especially helping young women become more educated in ways to shield themselves from deceitful men.

  Men such as that would likely be better served by a day’s labor than idleness and gambling, amongst other more scandalous pursuits. Her near betrothal to Roger Quinlin had taught her as much. Of course, she’d only found out about his true nature once her own circumstances had changed.

  Lucan Montwood was another man who would be better served with some form of occupation. She thought of him as she took the stairs. What did a man of no fortune, no property, and no trade do all day? Likely, he spent hours gambling and the rest of the flirting or engaging in similar . . . activities. Her pulse quickened at the thought.

  Their encounter had left her unsettled yesterday afternoon. She couldn’t help but wonder why he’d lingered. It couldn’t have been for her sake. Moreover, he hadn’t appeared to have business with Mrs. Hunter or an engagement with Lady Binghamton, other than holding the door. So, then, why?

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she could think of no reason and summarily decided to cast him from her mind. She quickly scanned the room and found the two straight-backed chairs and small wine table exactly where she’d left th
em. The front window was closed. Her assortment of props for her instruction were hanging neatly in a row against the back wall. And the back window was . . . open.

  Oh dear. How could that be? She recalled closing it herself after taking one final peek at the booklet. The booklet! Alarmed, she rushed to the window. Lifting up the sash, she searched the sill and the floor but found nothing. Then, she peered outside toward the alley below. Still nothing. With the building across the way close enough to reach out and touch, she searched the slanted roof, wondering if it had blown away in the wind.

  How could she have been so careless?

  Frances closed the window, pressed her forehead against the glass, and drew in a breath. Peculiarly, the seductive aroma of freshly ironed sheets and midnight air filled her nostrils.

  She started. Spinning away from the window, she half expected to see Lucan Montwood standing behind her. But he wasn’t there. The room was still vacant. Even so, she didn’t feel alone. Obviously, the lingering effects of their meeting were proving difficult to forget. Perhaps it would simply take a more concerted effort. Thankfully, she wasn’t likely to encounter him for a very long time. What reason could they possibly have to meet?

  By tomorrow morning, her thoughts would be completely free of Lucan Montwood.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Leaving Mrs. Hunter’s agency, Lucan went in search of answers. Hours later, he found a drunken Hugh Thorne in a gaming hell. Once they were a safe distance outside, he glanced back to make sure no one had followed them. None yet, at least. Just in case, however, he raised his hand for a hack.

  “Betting your last farthing is one thing, but begging for a line of credit for one hundred pounds? That was a fool’s move, Thorne,” Lucan growled under his breath. He’d lost count of how many times he’d saved this man’s life in the past two and a half years. So many, in fact, that he was beginning to question if this would turn into his life’s pursuit. Aunt Theodosia would certainly have a laugh over that. His mother’s elder sister was forever telling him that he’d missed his calling as a saint. But what saint had murder in his heart?