Thief of Hearts

  Jarred by his dangerous musings, he craned his neck toward the rear window, heartened by the sight of a single rider trailing far enough behind the carriage to keep from arousing the footman’s suspicion. After today, Lucy would probably entreat her father to raise his wages.

  The vehicle halted before a shining expanse of shop windows, behind which a dizzying array of perfumes, fabrics, liquors, jewels, pastries, and books were displayed for the pleasure of the genteel shoppers milling along the flagstone pavement.

  “What shall it be?” Gerard asked as he handed Lucy down from the carriage, holding her gloved hand a heartbeat longer than was necessary. “The stationers? I should so hate for you to be deprived of the fulfillment of completing your Cornwall seascape.”

  She popped open her pagoda-style parasol to shade her face from the sun. Bells of warning jangled in Gerard’s head as her lips tilted in a deliberate smile. “I’m off to the silk mercer this morning for some …” She trailed off, studying the stocking toes peeping out from her sandals as if too shy to continue.

  “Purchases you’d rather not discuss in public,” he gently provided.

  “Quite so. You needn’t accompany me. I’m afraid you’d find it quite dull.”

  Au contraire, ma chérie, Gerard thought. He was tempted to trail along just to prove to her that he knew more about those gossamer scraps of silk and lace than she could hope to learn in a lifetime.

  She plainly believed she’d found a way to rid herself of his company, not realizing that she was playing right into his devilish hands.

  He escorted her to the doorway of an elegant shop with tall windows draped in folds of Italian silk, Brussels lace, patterned chintzes, and muslins even more translucent than the one she was wearing. “I’ll wait right outside for you. Take all the time you need,” he graciously assured her.

  She blinked up at him, clearly thrown off balance by his amiable surrender. He gave her a gentle shove through the door.

  Gerard could not resist sneaking a peek into the gilded salon. One of the proprietors rushed toward Lucy to press a swath of silk into her hand, crooning in heavily accented English, “Our finest Italian, miss, so diverting, so cool.”

  Lucy fondled the sleek fabric, utterly unaware of the sensual languor that stole over her features. Diverting indeed, but hardly cool, Gerard thought as his mind transposed heated images with torturous clarity. Her fingers on the silk. His fingers on her.

  Fists clenched, he swung away from the door, knowing he’d best escape before the trap snapped shut on his own tail.

  Lucy emerged from the tasteful gloom of the mercer’s salon over an hour later, blinking against the bright sunlight. She was still congratulating herself on her cleverness. Not only had she shed herself of her bodyguard’s vexing company to enjoy a brief interlude of privacy, she had also bid ten shillings a yard on a bolt of Italian silk for which the mercer had been asking fifteen. When the fabric was delivered, the Admiral would undoubtedly praise her for her economy.

  Jostled by the crowds, she shaded her eyes with her parasol and peered around uncertainly. There was no sign of Claremont or the carriage. A row of unfamiliar vehicles lined the roadside, their horses drowsing in the noonday sun. Perhaps Fenster had been forced to park farther down the street and her bodyguard had sought shelter from the unseasonal heat in the shaded confines of the carriage.

  She ought to be relieved that Claremont wasn’t lurking about, she told herself, just waiting to pounce on her with that infuriating smirk of his. She was obviously going to have to devise a more subtle plan of attack. Warning him of her intentions had only given him time to plot his defense.

  Tilting her parasol to a jaunty angle, she decided to stroll to the stationers alone. She hurried past the bawling street vendors, trying to ignore the mouthwatering aromas of Banbury cakes and roasted apples. An uncontrollable passion for sweets was yet another of the carnal frailties bequeathed to her by her mother.

  She smiled to imagine Mr. Claremont’s chagrin when he returned to the mercer’s shop only to discover his golden goose had flown the nest.

  She was still savoring her satisfaction when a grubby hand shot out, grabbed the braided cord of her reticule, and jerked her into a deserted alley.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GERARD LEANED AGAINST A WROUGHT-IRON lamppost, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat, and slowly counted to ten. He braced himself for the shrill woman’s scream that should follow.

  Ominous silence drifted from the mouth of the alley where Lucy had disappeared.

  He drew out his watch and frowned at it, then straightened, beset by a sense of foreboding. He’d wanted to rid himself of the Admiral’s brat as an obstacle to his employment, but he’d never intended for her to be hurt. What if she’d swooned? Or fallen and struck her head? An image of Lucy lying crumpled on the cobblestones, her hair spilled around her pallid face, sent him stalking toward the alley.

  He marched around the corner, then froze, his jaw dropping in shock at the sight that greeted him.

  A masked man lay flat on his back on the cobblestones, cowering beneath the sharp point of the parasol pressed to his throat. Gripping the parasol’s ivory handle in her gloved hand, Lucy stood over him, looking as cool and composed as if she’d just come from a garden party. Gerard’s abrupt appearance drew no more response from her than a delicately arched eyebrow.

  “Please, miss, don’t hurt me!” the thief was whining, his brogue so thick the words were almost unintelligible. “I didn’t mean no harm, honest I didn’t.” His voice rose to a relieved squeak as he saw Gerard glaring down at him in disgust. “Help me, mister, won’t ye? Don’t let her hurt me! It was bloody awful. She beat me about the head, tripped me, then damn near skewered me with that umbreller thing. Why I thought ye’d never—”

  Gerard stilled the thief’s dangerous babbling by fixing a hand around his scrawny throat and lifting him to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Snow, I must dispose of this rubbish.”

  She dusted off her gloved hands. “The wretch tried to steal my reticule. Shouldn’t you turn him over to a constable?”

  Gerard tightened his grip. The lad’s feet kicked vainly at the air. “When I’m through with him, he’ll wish I had,” he promised grimly.

  Gerard returned a few moments later to find Lucy admiring the sweetmeats and comfits in the window of a confectionery shop.

  He stopped directly behind her, aware that he was standing far too close for propriety, but too furious to give a bloody damn. The source of his anger galled him even more than its intensity. He wasn’t angry at her for thwarting his scheme. He was angry at himself for that brief instant when he’d actually cared about her welfare. God knows he’d already wasted enough of his mercy on her.

  Studying her unruffled reflection in the shop window, he demanded, “Why the bloody hell didn’t you scream? If I hadn’t been following at a distance, anything could have happened to you.”

  She faced him, showing no sign of being intimidated by his bullying nearness. “It takes more than one incompetent thief to make me scream. Besides, I had the situation well in hand. I do believe I’ve proved my point, Mr. Claremont.” She ducked out from beneath his shadow and snapped open her lethal parasol as if he might well be its next victim.

  “What point might that be?”

  “That I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I’ve really no need of your services.” She shot him a look from beneath the dancing fringe of the parasol that might have been flirtatious coming from any woman other than the Admiral’s daughter. “But I’ve decided that I’ve no right to deprive you of your position. Therefore, all you must do to assure your future at Ionia is please me.”

  On that magnanimous note, she flounced away, her parasol twirling at full sail. Gerard refused to give her the satisfaction of trotting obediently at her sandaled heels.

  He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, thinking it a pity that he had neither the time nor the
inclination to show his employer’s daughter just how much he could please her.

  Gerard strode away from the great house as if pursued by the demons of hell, lengthening his strides as he heard the telltale creak of a sash window on the second floor.

  “Oh, Mr. Claremont! Excuse me, Mr. Claremont!”

  He flinched at the familiar dulcet tones and briefly considered not slowing his pace. Considered marching past the gatehouse, out the gate, and all the way to London to find the quiekest horse, coach, or ship that would carry him beyond earshot of that musical voice.

  He had fully expected the Admiral to be a tyrant, but the man’s imperious daughter was proving Genghis Khan to be nothing more than mildly petulant.

  “Mr. Claremont! There you are!” she exclaimed, as if they hadn’t parted company less than fifteen minutes ago when she’d ordered him to sharpen each of her charcoal pencils with a dull kitchen knife. He felt fortunate she hadn’t demanded he lick them to a point.

  Blinking rapidly to clear the murder from his eyes, Gerard swung around and marched back to the house until he stood beneath his young mistress’s window like some lovestruck swain of yore.

  “Yes, miss?” he gritted out dutifully between clenched teeth.

  “Could you meet me in the green salon, please? I have need of your services.”

  As Gerard stomped his way around to the servants’ entrance, he muttered beneath his breath the services he’d like to perform for her, one of which he was certain would at least shut her up for a few minutes.

  None of them involved the trivial tasks he’d been forced to undertake in the past week: balancing her embroidery frame on his knees at an afternoon tea while she’d proceeded to poke him with her needle whenever the dull conversation tempted him to nap, picking up her gloves each time she dropped them on a shopping excursion, turning the pages of Lord Howell’s incredibly dry memoirs for her, as if she were too frail or addlepated to do it herself.

  He might have been better able to tolerate her bullying had it been delivered with even a hint of malice, but each command was delivered in a tone of irreproachable sweetness, each coaxing smile accompanied by the beguiling flash of a dimple he’d never noticed before. She’d plainly abandoned her campaign to have him dismissed in the hopes of driving him to resign. Or to strangle her. Her transparency amused him almost as much as it infuriated him.

  Her constant demands on his time left him with only the black hours of night to invest in his own stakes. Exhaustion was preying on his already frazzled temper, but he was only too aware that every minute lost to sleep was another minute to be endured in her company.

  The drawing room door was ajar, just as he’d expected it to be. His armor of professional indifference nearly cracked to find Lucy bent over the settee, peering intently at something on the opposite side. He eyed her muslin-molded derriere in a mercenary light, the temptation to plant his boot in the middle of it surpassed by a far more disturbing and primal urge.

  He snapped off a crisp bow. “At your service, miss.”

  Her outstretched finger quivered convincingly as she pointed at something on the far side of the settee. “Do hurry, please. It gave me the most awful fright.”

  Snorting beneath his breath, Gerard went around the settee and peered at the place she indicated. “I don’t see a damn”—he cleared his throat—“I don’t see anything, miss.” Her title escaped with an unintended hiss.

  “Of course you do. He’s horrible. He almost gave me a fit of the vapors and I can assure you I’m not a woman given to vapors.”

  Sighing, Gerard drew off his spectacles and took a second look. A tiny spider, nearly invisible to the naked eye, was inching his way valiantly down a gossamer thread. Gerard felt nothing but pity for the little fellow. He reminded him of himself—kept dangling over a hazardous precipice, dancing to Lucy’s tune.

  He slid his spectacles back on and gave Lucy a look of biting patience. “What would you have me do, Miss Muffet—er, Miss Snow?”

  She fanned her fingers at her throat. “You are my bodyguard. You’re supposed to protect me from things that might do me harm.”

  A devilish sense of peace washed over him. “Very well, miss.” He reached inside his coat to draw out a pistol and fixed the hapless creature in his sights.

  Lucy’s gasp of alarm was genuine. Her gray eyes widened as she ogled the shiny weapon. He knew she’d had no inkling that he possessed a pistol, much less that he never left the gatehouse without it.

  “Mr. Claremont, whatever are you doing?”

  He lowered the weapon. “Protecting you, of course. Wasn’t that what you wished?”

  “Surely you don’t intend to shoot the poor creature.”

  “What do you suggest? Shall I flog it? Deport it to Australia? Capture it and deliver it into your father’s hands?”

  She sank down on the settee. Her hair shielded her face as she mumbled, “You might remove it to the garden.”

  To the garden, Gerard thought. Where she’d undoubtedly found it to begin with.

  Her unexpected mercy disturbed him more than her duplicity. To counteract its jarring effect, he slid the pistol back into his coat and gave her a sinister leer. “Wouldn’t you rather I crush it into the rug with the heel of my boot?” He lifted his foot a menacing inch.

  She flung her hair from her eyes. “Oh, no! You mustn’t. He is one of God’s creatures after all and I’m sure he had no intention of causing such a row.”

  She rushed to the hearth to retrieve a brass snuffbox whose immaculate surface suggested it had never known use. She scooped the spider into it without even a shred of squeamishness and handed it to him.

  He gazed at the poor creature skittering in circles at the bottom of the snuffbox, wondering if it felt half as trapped as he did.

  “There,” she said, waving an imperious hand. “Now you can see that he comes to no harm and finds a pleasant home.”

  “I shall consider it my sacred charge.” He swept out one arm in a full court bow, mocking them both. “Anything for you, my lady.”

  “ ’Twas the Battle of Chesapeake Bay in March of ’81 when those damned Frenchies threw up a blockade to stop us from delivering supplies to the British forces at Yorktown. Thomas Graves was rear admiral then and I tried to warn him he’d best not waste time lining up all those ships in perfect formation. Tommy, old chap,’ I said quite frankly …”

  The Admiral droned on and on like an enormous bumblebee. Gerard would have sworn the sand in the gleaming brass hourglass perched on the edge of the library desk had frozen to a halt hours ago.

  By listening to Lucien Snow dictate his memoirs, Gerard had discovered only that it was the Admiral’s keenest regret that after a lifetime of petty skirmishing with the French, he’d been robbed by his injury of commanding the English fleet in some of her greatest victories. He believed it should have been he who defeated the French fleet in the Battle of the Nile. He who should have been offered a barony, been given a generous pension by Parliament, and earned the fame and fortune awarded instead to an inexperienced whelp of a rear admiral named Horatio Nelson.

  The Admiral’s daughter sat at a sturdy writing desk, her hair sleeked away from her face and bound at her nape with a blue velvet bow. Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, edging her delicate profile in gilt. Her pen never ceased its scratching as she transcribed her father’s memories in her tidy script.

  How did she remain so bright-eyed, Gerard wondered, when she must have heard these musty stories a thousand times? Of course, given her worship of her father, she probably considered them more compelling than gospel. It was difficult to believe the docile little mouse was the same despot who had had him summoned from the gatehouse at dawn to retrieve a hairpin that had slipped into a crack in the parquet floor. He lifted the bone-china cup to his lips to hide his simmering resentment.

  “More coffee, sir?”

  Gerard was startled by Smythe’s appearance at his elbow. The butler’s fleet-footed stealth
never failed to unnerve him. He’d come dangerously close to gutting the man with his soup spoon more than once in the past week.

  That would have been a crime he regretted keenly, for upon discovering that Gerard despised the insipid blend that passed for tea in the Snow household, Smythe had taken to brewing a pot of rich, dark Colombian coffee each morning just for his pleasure.

  “Please?” Gerard shot the butler a grateful look as Smythe filled the cup to its rim. He warmed his hands on the porcelain bowl, hoping its fragrant steam would revive his waning attention.

  “… that would have been the year old George finally swallowed his pride and knighted me,” the Admiral was saying. “It galled him to distraction to admit the son of a common tanner had saved his royal neck. Eighty, wasn’t it? Or was it eighty-one?”

  “Eighty-two, sir,” Smythe interjected. “After your noble sacrifice at the Battle of Sadras.”

  “Ah, yes. Sadras!” The Admiral’s eyes misted over with memories of past glories. Gerard clenched his teeth against a snarl.

  Her pen flying, Lucy cast him a reproving look, reminding him that he was neglecting his own duties. He’d gallantly volunteered to sort through a moldy stack of the Admiral’s personal correspondence for pertinent dates and names. All he’d managed to learn so far was that most of the Admiral’s friends were as pompous and overbearing as he was.

  “… so when the mist cleared at dawn, I found myself staring down the hungry mouths of eighty-six French cannons. There was nothing for me to do but give the order for ‘General Chase’ and—”

  “Seventeen ninety-six,” Gerard blurted out before his employer could embroil them in yet another interminable battle. “Would that have been the year of your unfortunate injury, sir?” He blinked owlishly behind his spectacles, using the innocent demeanor they afforded him to his best advantage.