Then came you, by lisa kleypas.txt Page 17

  tray in his hands. The paper was sealed with a dirty blob of wax.

  Burton proffered the tray. "You instructed me to deliver them to you upon their arrival, no matter what time—"

  "Yes," Lily interrupted, snatching the letter. She broke the seal, and scanned the scrawled lines. "Tonight. Damn him! He

  must have people watching me . . . always seems to know where I am ..."

  "Miss?" Burton had never been privileged to know the contents of the letters, which arrived at the terrace on a sporadic

  basis. He had come to recognize them by the elaborate, untidy handwriting, and the strange appearance of the bearers.

  The letters were always delivered by ragged boys fresh from the street.

  "Have a horse saddled for me," Lily said.

  "Miss Lawson, I should like to point out the inadvisability of a woman riding alone in London, especially at night—"

  "Tell one of the maids to bring my gray cloak. The one with the hood."

  "Yes, miss."

  Slowly she went down the stairs, keeping hold of the railing as if to steady herself.

  * * *

  Covent Garden was an especially unsavory area of London, where every worldly pleasure from the conventional to the unthinkable was to be had for a price. There was advertising both visible and verbal: printed bills and notices plastered on

  every wall, the din of swindlers, pimps, and prostitutes shouting invitations at every passerby. Regency bucks, coming from

  the theaters with their light-o'-loves, teetered drunkenly to the market taverns. Lily took care to avoid all of them. A drunken lord could sometimes prove as dangerous and inhuman as a professional criminal.

  As she crossed through pools of gaslight and shadow, Lily felt sympathy for the parade of prostitutes trodding the thoroughfares. There were young girls and haggard old women and every age in between. They were either thin from starvation or bloated

  with gin. They all wore the same weary look as they rested on steps and posed on corners, producing painted smiles for any prospective customer. Surely they would never have turned to such an existence had there been any other choice.

  There but for the grace of God, Lily thought, and shuddered. She would kill herself rather than turn to such a life, even the life

  of a courtesan wearing diamond clusters and servicing her protector on silk sheets. Her lip curled with disgust. Better to be

  dead than owned by a man and forced to serve his physical needs.

  Traveling south on King Street, she passed the churchyard. She ignored the catcalls and jeers thrown at her from the roofed shacks that served as shops and dwelling places. Cautiously she went across the street from the market entrance. The two-story arcade was fronted with a pediment and granite Tuscan columns, an oddly regal design for a place containing such squalor. She reined in her horse and paused in a shadow. There was nothing to do but wait. Ruefully she grinned as she saw a pair of young pickpockets nimbly working the crowds. Then she thought of Nicole. Her face turned to stone. My God, what kind of existence was she leading now? Was it possible, young as she was, that she was already being used to turn vice into profit? The notion brought stinging tears to her eyes. Roughly she rubbed them away. She couldn't give way to emotion, not now. She had to be

  cool and self-controlled.

  A lazy voice came from the darkness nearby. "So 'ere you are, then. I 'ope you bring what I want."

  Slowly Lily dismounted and clutched the reins of her mount in one hand. She turned in the direction of the voice, and forced herself to speak steadily, though her entire body was trembling.

  "No more, Giuseppe. Not a farthing more until you give me back my daughter."

  Chapter 7

  Count Giuseppe Gavazzi had all the striking splendor of a figure from an Italian Renaissance painting—boldly prominent

  features, curly black hair, rich olive skin, and lustrous black eyes. Lily remembered the first time she had ever seen him.

  Giuseppe had been standing in a sunlit Florentine piazza, surrounded by a group of Italian women who hung on every word

  he spoke. With his flashing smile and dark beauty, he had taken Lily's breath away. Their paths had crossed numerous times

  at social events, and Giuseppe had begun to pursue her ardently, ostentatiously.

  Lily had been overwhelmed by the romance of Italy and the previously unknown excitement of being seduced by a handsome man. Harry Hin-don, her only other love, had been staid and so very English, qualities that had pleased her parents. She'd

  thought Harry's tight grasp on propriety would influence her, save her. Instead her wildness had caused him to leave her. But Count Gavazzi had seemed to relish her impulsive glee— he had called her exciting, beautiful. At the time it had seemed as if she'd finally found the man with whom she could drop all pretenses and be herself. Now the memory of her own foolishness disgusted her.

  In the past few years Giuseppe's looks had coarsened—or perhaps it was merely that her perception of him had changed.

  His pouting lips, praised by the Italian signoras for their sensuous fullness, now seemed repulsive to Lily. She loathed the

  way his gaze roamed greedily over her, though once she had been flattered by his attention. There was something seedy

  about his appearance, even in the way he stood with his hands clasped on his hips to emphasize their unusual narrowness.

  It made her stomach turn to look at him and remember the night they'd spent together. He had astonished and humiliated

  her by asking for a gift afterward. As if she were some dried-up spinster, obligated to pay a man to come to her bed.

  Giuseppe reached out and pushed Lily's hood back, revealing her resolute face. "Buona sera," he said in his rich voice, his fingertip extending to stroke her cheek. She knocked his hand away, making him chuckle. "Ah, still with the claws, my darling

  cat. I come for the money, caro. You come for news of Nicoletta. Now give to me, and I do the same."

  "Not anymore." Lily drew in a trembling breath. "You oily bastard. Why should I give you more money when I don't even

  know if she's alive?"

  "I promise you, she is safe, 'appy—" "How can she be happy with no mother?" "Such a beautiful little girl we 'ave, Lily. With

  the smile all the time, and the pretty 'air ..." He touched his own ebony curls. "Pretty like mine. She call me Papa. Sometime

  she ask me where is Mama."

  That broke her as nothing else could. Lily stared at him without blinking. She swallowed against a lump of pain, and tears

  sprang to her eyes. "I'm her mother," she said wretchedly. "She needs me, and I want her back, Giuseppe. You know she

  belongs with me!"

  He regarded her with a faintly pitying smile. "Maybe I return Nicoletta before now, bella, but you make too many times

  mistake. You have men looking, asking question in the city. You do tricks on me, 'ave them follow me after we meet. You

  make me angry. Now I think for more years I keep Nicoletta."

  "I told you, I don't know anything about that," Lily cried. It was a lie, of course. She was well aware that Derek had men searching for Nicole. Derek had informants in every part of the city, including porters, clerks, dealers, whores, butchers,

  and pawnbrokers. Over the past year he had summoned Lily four different times to take a look at dark-haired girls matching Nicole's description. None of them were her daughter. She couldn't afford to take them in. What Derek did with them

  afterward, she didn't ask and had no desire to know.

  She looked at Guiseppe with hate-filled eyes. "I've given you a fortune," she said hoarsely. "I don't have anything left. Have

  you heard the expression 'blood from a turnip,' Guiseppe? It means I can't give you any more, because "I don't have it!"

  "Then you look to find more," came his soft reply. "Or from somewhere I take the money— there is many men asking to
<
br />   buy a pretty girl as Nicoletta."

  "What?" Lily put a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of agony. "How could you do that to your own child? You wouldn't sell

  her like that—it would kill her—and me—oh, God, you haven't already, have you?"

  "Not yet. But I come close maybe, caro." He held out his empty palm. "You pay the money now."

  "How long will this go on?" she whispered. "When is it going to be enough?"

  He ignored the question and shoved his open hand toward her. "Now."

  Tears slid down her face. "I don't have it."

  "I give you three days, Lily. You come to bring five thousand pound ... or Nicoletta is gone forever."

  She lowered her head, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps, the raucous noise of Covent Garden, the soft nicker of

  her horse. She shook with wild desperation—it took all her strength to keep it inside. Money. Her accounts had never been so depleted. This past month she hadn't turned her usual profit at Craven's. Well, her luck would have to change, and fast. She'd

  have to play deep. If she couldn't win five thousand in three days . . . God, what would she do?

  She could ask Derek for a loan . . . No. She'd made that mistake once before, a year and a half ago. She'd thought that with his stupendous fortune, he wouldn't mind loaning her a thousand or two, especially at her promise to return it with interest. To her surprise, Derek had turned coldly cruel, and made her swear she'd never ask him for money again. It had taken weeks to get

  back in his good graces. Lily didn't understand why he had been so angry. It wasn't as if he were a miserly man—just the opposite. He was generous in countless ways—giving her presents, the use of his vast properties, allowing her to pilfer from

  his kitchens and liquor supply, helping her search for Nicole . . . but he'd never given her a farthing. Now she knew better

  than to ask.

  She considered some of the rich old men she knew, men with whom she had gambled and flirted and maintained friendships with. Lord Harrington, she thought numbly, with his fat belly and cheerful red face and limp powdered wigs. Or Arthur Longman, a respected barrister. His face was rather unattractive—large nose, no chin, sagging cheeks—but his eyes were kind, and he was an honorable man. Both of them had hinted in gentlemanly ways about their attraction to her. She could accept one of them as a protector. There was no doubt she would be well treated and generously provided for. But it would change her life forever. Certain doors that were yet open to her would be closed for good. She would become an expensive whore—and that was only if she were lucky. If her experience with Giuseppe was anything to judge by, she might prove so unsatisfactory in bed that no one would want to keep her.

  Lily went to the horse and rested her forehead on its warm, dusty neck. "I'm so tired," she whispered. Tired and cynical.

  She had so little reason to hope for Nicole's return. Her life had become nothing but endless grubbing for money. She should never have wasted so much time with this business about Penny, Zach, and Alex Rai-ford. It may have cost her Nicole. But

  if not for the distraction of the past week, she thought she might have lost her sanity.

  A light rain began to fall, drops pattering on her hair. Lily closed her eyes and lifted her face, letting the water trail down her cheeks in cool rivulets. Suddenly she remembered Nicole at bath time, making the discovery that she could wet her tiny fists

  and shake them in the air and splash them in the tub.

  "Look what you can do!" Lily had exclaimed with a laugh. "How dare you splash your mama, you clever little duck . . .

  water is for the bath, not the floor ..."

  Stubbornly Lily wiped away the raindrops and tears. She squared her shoulders. "It's only money," she muttered. "I've gotten it before. I'll get it again somehow."

  * * *

  The clock chimed nine times. Alex had been staring at it for nearly an hour. It was a sentimental figured bronze clock, adorned with porcelain roses and a shy shepherdess glancing over her shoulder at a nobleman proffering a bouquet of flowers. The rest

  of Lily's bedroom was just as feminine—the pale sea green walls decorated with delicate white plasterwork, the windows hung with rose silk, the furniture upholstered with soft velvet. Now that he thought of it, the brief glimpse he'd caught of Lily's house had been very different from this—dark, rich, and almost masculine. It was as if she had saved her private room for all the feminine indulgence she hadn't allowed herself elsewhere.

  As the last chime sounded, the bedroom door opened. The butler. Burton, she had called him.

  "Good morning, sir," Burton said impassively. "I trust you had a restful night?"

  Alex glowered at him.

  After Lily had left him, he had been alone with nothing but silent hours ahead. Until then he'd made a habit of filling every

  waking moment with distractions. Work, sporting, social amusements, drinking, women, countless ways he had devised to

  avoid being alone with his thoughts. Unwittingly Lily had forced him to face what he was most afraid of. In the quiet darkness,

  he hadn't been able to stop the memories from swooping down on him like vultures, tearing at his heart.

  At first it had all been a jumble—anger, passion, regret, grief. No one would ever know what he had gone through in those

  hours of confinement. No one would ever need to know. All that was important was that the jumble had somehow sorted itself out, and things had become clear in his mind. He would never see Caroline in another woman's face again. She was part of his past, and he would leave her there. No more grief, no ghosts. And as for Lily . . . He devoted a good deal of thought to what he was going to do about her. Sometime during the early morning hours he'd drifted into a sleep of pure, dark velvet.

  The butler came to the bedside bearing a small knife. "Shall I, sir?" Burton inquired, gesturing to his bound arms.

  Alex gave him an incredulous look. "Oh, by all means," he replied in a sarcastic show of politeness. Deftly the butler sawed

  at the finely woven rope. Alex grimaced as his right arm was released. He brought it to his chest, flexing the aching muscles

  with a quiet groan, and watched as Burton went around the bed to the other side.

  Silently Alex had to admit that Burton was impressive. He had the most authentically butlerish appearance Alex had ever seen. He wore a beautifully trimmed beard, and a look of intelligence and authority. All this wrapped in a package of impeccable deference. It took aplomb to approach this situation with dignity, and yet Burton was untying him from the bed in the same stoic manner with which he might have poured tea or brushed a hat.

  Burton's brows twitched in what might have been dismay as he saw Alex's blistered wrists. "My lord, I will bring a salve for

  your arms."

  "No," Alex growled. "You've done quite enough."

  "Yes, sir."

  Painfully Alex drew himself to a sitting position, flexing his cramped limbs. "Where is she this morning?"

  "If you're referring to Miss Lawson, sir, I have no knowledge of her whereabouts. However, I have been instructed to remind

  you that Master Henry is at Mr. Craven's establishment."

  "If anything's happened to him, I'll hold you every bit as responsible as Miss Lawson."

  Burton looked unruffled. "Yes, sir."

  Alex shook his head in amazement. "You'd help her with murder if she asked, wouldn't you?"

  "She hasn't requested it, sir."

  "Yet," Alex muttered. "But if she did?"

  "As my employer, Miss Lawson is entitled to my absolute loyalty." Burton regarded Alex politely. "Would you care for a paper,

  my lord? Coffee? Tea, perhaps. For breakfast we can provide—"

  "To begin with, you can stop behaving as if this is a commonplace occurrence ... or is it? Could it be the usual thing for you to offer breakfast to guests who've be
en tied hand and foot to Lily Lawson's bed?"

  Burton considered the question carefully, as if reluctant to betray Lily's privacy. "You are the first, Lord Raiford," he finally admitted.

  "What a hell of an honor." Alex put a hand to his sore head and probed gingerly. There was a tender bump a few inches

  above his ear. "I'll take a headache powder. She owes me that, to start with."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And have my driver bring my carriage around—unless you and Miss Lawson have him bound to a stable rack or hitching

  post somewhere."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Burton—that's your name, isn't it? How long have you been working for Miss Lawson?"

  "Since she returned to London, my lord."

  "Well, whatever your salary, I'll double it if you'll come work for me."

  "Thank you, Lord Raiford. However, I must respectfully decline."

  Alex stared at him curiously. "Why? God knows Lily must put you through hell. Knowing her, I suspect this isn't the worst escapade she's ever involved you in."