Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) (6 page)

“The servants won’t come to your rescue. This is a house of idiots and cowards.”

“They might come.”

“They won’t. Desist with your fantasies.”

He grabbed her wrist and tugged her into the room, a rude act that had her sputtering with affront. Before she could respond or scold, he slammed the door and spun the key so she couldn’t escape. No one would exit until
he
decided someone could. Most likely it would be himself after she’d aggravated him beyond his limit.

“Unlock that door,” she said. “At once.”

“No.”

“Give me the key. I’ll unlock it.”

“No.”

“Are you planning to ravish me? Is that your ploy?”

“I can’t abide innocent women, Miss Fogarty, so your virtue is safe with me.”

“Safe? With you? I think not.”

He shrugged. “Think what you will.”

“Apparently you want something from me. Tell me what it is so we can move beyond it and get you out of here.”

“I told you I don’t know why I’ve come.”

“If you don’t know why, how am I to make you depart?”

“I don’t believe you can.”

“I’m not dressed, Mr. Drummond.”

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s obvious you’re not aware of manners and customs.”

“I’m aware of a few.”

“Let me remind you of one you’ve forgotten. It is not appropriate for you to visit a young lady’s bedchamber, and it is most especially not appropriate when that young lady is not dressed.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I what?”

“Dressed.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we have guests about to arrive.”

“I noticed. I consented to your holding the party, remember?”

“Yes, you’ve been extremely benevolent, and I need to get ready so would you please go? You’re making me late.”

“You amuse me, Miss Fogarty. Have you any whiskey up here?”

“Whiskey? No. Why would I have?”

“How about wine?”

“I’m not a secret tippler.”

“Too bad. I could use a drink.”

“Then head downstairs. The butler will be happy to pour you a glass.”

“Maybe he and I could sneak down to the cellar and imbibe together.”

“Maybe you could.”

She stopped her tirade, studied him, then threw up her hands. “I’m busy, and I don’t have time to deal with you.”

“Don’t let me keep you from doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You can’t barge in as you have.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“You pretend to be deaf so I have to repeat myself. Go away.”

“It’s my house.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, so I say.”

“Just so you know, we’ve written to the magistrate to have you arrested. We’ve sent letters to our neighbors and to friends in town too. You’ll be taken into custody very soon.”

“The letters were never sent. I have them all in my room.”

“Why would you have them?”

“Your messengers asked if I minded their being delivered, and I minded very much. I confiscated them. How would you suppose?”

Her glare deepened, her vexation humorous to witness. Even if the authorities showed up to question him, he had all the correct legal documents. There could be no reversing what had occurred, and Damian was simply waiting for Miles to appear.

She studied him again, fumed, studied him some more. Finally she whirled away and walked into her bedchamber. “Fine then. Be an ass. See if I care.”

“I don’t care, Miss Fogarty. You should understand that about me. I don’t care about anything.”

“Bully for you, Mr. Drummond. I’m sure it’s an enjoyable way to stagger through life.”

She continued to the dressing room while he meandered around in her bedchamber, snooping in her wardrobe and peeking in drawers. He was trying to find any small tidbit that would tell him more about her. She had suitable clothes, but nothing fashionable or extravagant. And no personal items. Nary a one.

All the while, he could hear her moving about. She’d slammed the door, but the latch hadn’t caught so it was slightly ajar. He was graced with glimpses of her strutting back and forth. If he’d been any sort of gentleman, he’d have told her what was happening. But he wasn’t a gentleman and never had been.

She’d shed her robe and was attired in chemise and petticoat. He was wondering how she’d lace her corset, but when she grabbed it, it was the type of functional garment that laced in the front such as a servant would wear with no assistance required from a maid.

His curiosity soared.

“Why is your room so far from the rest of the family?”

“The reason is none of your business, Mr. Drummond.”

There was a lengthy silence as she tugged on her gown, as she struggled with the buttons, then she yanked the door open.

“You’re still here,” she said. “Why are you?”

“You haven’t explained why you’re so far from everyone else. Did you choose these quarters or were you forced over to them like an ill-behaved child?”

“I am
here,
Mr. Drummond, because I like my privacy. That seems to be a difficult concept for you to grasp.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m simply not listening to you. In fact, I never listen to women. You should remember that about me.”

“You can leave me alone whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready. Not just yet.”

She whipped away and went to the dressing room again, and he sidled over and loitered, observing as she stood at the mirror. She twisted her hair into an untidy chignon and haphazardly jabbed in combs that were poorly placed and made her resemble a harried shopkeeper.

“Why don’t you call for your maid to help you?” he asked.

“I don’t have a maid.”

“Why not?”

“I’m an adult, and I can take care of myself. I don’t need to pester the servants. They have more important tasks to perform.”

“Well, you ought to pester them. Your hair is a mess. You can’t appear down at the party like that.”

She scowled over her shoulder and batted her lashes. “If you keep complimenting me, I’ll get a big head.”

“You’re the strangest female I’ve ever met.”

“Why? Because I tend myself without bothering others?”

“No. Because you’re not concerned about how you look.”

“I’m concerned,” she testily said, “but I’m in too much of a hurry to fuss over my condition. And I especially won’t fuss over it when you’re standing there glowering at me.”

“Do you always bluster forward in such a slapdash way?”

“Yes, always.”

She was jabbing and jabbing with a comb, but it wouldn’t catch. He couldn’t bear to watch her, and while he wasn’t the most romantic of men, he’d tarried in many women’s bedchambers. He knew how to push in a comb and make it stay.

He marched over and grabbed it. “Give me that.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to pin up your hair—as you’re obviously incapable of accomplishing it on your own.”

She turned toward him, but so quickly that she was off balance, and she staggered into him. Suddenly the front of her body was pressed to his, and he was delighted to report that she was curved in all the right feminine spots. She was slender and petite, and he could feel every delicious inch of her torso, her shapely breasts in particular capturing his attention.

For a thrilling instant, they were frozen, both of them shocked by sensation. His anatomy had an almost feral reaction to her, similar to what a hound must suffer when it scented the fox.

She broke away first, bristling with offense and leaping back, but she was next to the wall so she simply banged into it—and very hard too.

He couldn’t figure out why he was harassing her, but he wasn’t about to stop. He stepped in, crushing her to the plaster, his arms on either side to keep her trapped.

“Release me,” she commanded.

“No.”

“You’re insane, Mr. Drummond, and you’re scaring me.”

“I am not. I don’t frighten you.”

Her blue eyes flashing daggers, she considered his comment then confessed, “You’re correct. You don’t frighten me, but you annoy me to Heaven and back.”

“Is Augusta kind to you? Is Miles?”

“Kind enough.”

“How was it that you came to live here?”

“My parents died so I was orphaned. My Uncle Edward brought me to Kirkwood, and I’ve always been grateful.”

“Loyal, too?”

“Yes. Absurdly loyal.”

“Good. I like a loyal person. With my taking possession of the property—”

“Dream big, Mr. Drummond. I’m positive you’ll never possess Kirkwood.”

“If I toss you out on the road, where will you go?”

“Where will I…go?”

“Yes. My fight isn’t with you, and you shouldn’t be punished for Miles’s sins.”

She scoffed. “I’m certain this will be a great surprise to you, Mr. Drummond, but I’ve been punished for other people’s sins since the day I was born.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, now give me that blasted comb.”

He was still holding it, and she yanked it away. Then she kicked him in the shin, shoved him, and marched off. He moved away because he felt like it, not because she’d forced him to. She dashed to the bedchamber, to the sitting room beyond, and she spun the knob on the door so she could huff out, but she’d forgotten it was locked.

“Ooh,” she fumed as she whirled on him. “Open it. Right now!”

He sauntered over and stuck in the key.

“Have a nice party, Miss Fogarty,” he said.

“Don’t you dare butt your nose in and ruin everything.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m serious. This stupid night cost us a fortune. I won’t have you wrecking it by upsetting the neighbors or fueling gossip about you and Miles.”

“I won’t,” he repeated.

“You’re a menace.”

“I am. I admit it.”

“You’re a…cur, a swine, a…a…reprobate.”

The tepid insult made him laugh. “Is that the best you can do?”

“I’d use a few more descriptive nouns, but I’m too much of a lady to voice them.”

“Sure you are, Miss Fogarty. Sure you are.”

“And since I absolutely hate you, I won’t waste my breath.” She pushed him away. “I have guests so go bother someone else.”

She stomped out, and he leaned on the doorframe, watching her shapely backside swish against her skirt as she headed down the hall and disappeared.

He grinned.

He hadn’t expected to be entertained at Kirkwood, hadn’t expected to enjoy his sojourn or be amused by the occupants. But perhaps—just perhaps—his stay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

He followed her, determined to stand in the front foyer and greet every guest that arrived. She’d warned him not to, and he’d said he wouldn’t, but he’d never listened to women in the past.

Why start now?

I
t’s easy.”

“It doesn’t look easy.”

“Watch me.”

Damian stepped into the crowd of rich nobs heading into the theater. His years of living on the streets, of being cold and hungry, had left him short and slender. He’d barely grown an inch since he’d departed Kirkwood with his grandfather.

Because of his small stature, people scarcely noticed him, and they certainly weren’t wary of him. He was slippery as an eel too. He could flit and duck and run away with no chance he’d ever be caught.

He slid his fingers into the first coat he saw, withdrew the man’s purse, and disappeared into the surging horde before the fellow could turn around. He fled into the nearest alley, winding through walkways and tunnels to where his new companion, Kit Roxbury, waited for him to arrive.

He’d like to say Kit was his friend, but he was simply a stray urchin Damian had met, a boy in the same dire straits, and Damian would never allow him to be more than that.

Damian had hardened his heart. He’d witnessed firsthand the cruelty human beings could perpetrate on the innocent and unsuspecting. He’d witnessed how fast things could change, and he would never be complacent, would never bond or rely on anyone.

He tried to give the purse to Kit, but Kit wouldn’t take it.

“Stealing is wrong,” he insisted.

“Starvation is wrong too,” Damian countered. “My grandfather would hate to see where circumstances have led me, but he’s not here and neither is your mother.”

“If I become a thief, she’d be ashamed of me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she’d want you to survive and make something of yourself. Besides, she’s in Heaven so her opinion doesn’t matter, and she definitely can’t help you.”

Kit looked down at the ground, his expression grim and sad, and Damian patted his shoulder. Kit was three years younger than Damian, and Kit too had come from a grand estate like Kirkwood. He’d had a family, a home where his father had been wealthy and his mother kind and wonderful.

But his father had died, then his mother had been evicted. Kit had been too little to understand why. His mother had moved them to town and had fallen into penury. She’d been sick and had passed away, leaving Kit and his three siblings alone.

The life he’d known—that had seemed so stable and perfect—had vanished in an instant. He was an orphan as Damian was, but he couldn’t convince himself that he had to do what was necessary to get by.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Damian told him. “You don’t have to learn the trade.”

“No, I’d like to stay.”

“Then you have to practice what I’m showing you.”

“I’m so afraid I’ll be arrested.”

“So?”

“I’ll go to jail.”

“While you’re there, you’ll have food to eat and a roof over your head.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a benefit.”

Damian didn’t understand why he’d taken Kit under his wing. When he’d stumbled on him, cold, wet, and terrified, he’d seen too much of himself in the frightened boy.

He’d permitted Kit to tag along, a merciful act he’d never previously extended.

“You have to decide what you want,” Damian scolded. “If you choose to remain as my partner, you have to do your part.”

“I don’t want to be out here on my own.”

“All right, but stop whining.”

“I will. It’s just difficult for me.”

“It was difficult for me too—in the beginning—but I shed my worries quickly enough.” Damian stuffed the purse in his shirt and started off. “Come. We have to deliver this to Michael.”

“I don’t like him. He scares me.”

“He shouldn’t. If you never betray him, he’ll always be your friend.”

Michael Scott had rescued Damian as Damian had rescued Kit. Michael had found Damian on the streets, had brought him into his circle, had fed him and clothed him. He was a few years older than Damian, and he was tough and dangerous, smart and crafty, driven to rise above the low spot where he resided.

He’d taught Damian to steal and fight and win. He’d taught him to be wary, to be shrewd, to be dangerous too. He’d forced him to realize that the very worst thing he could imagine had already happened: His grandfather had died like a pauper in the gutter, and no one had cared a whit. His body had been dumped in a cart and hauled away by gravediggers, and Damian had no idea where he was buried.

In a matter of minutes, Damian had become a homeless waif, with no family or place or history. Michael Scott had saved him from his fate, had provided him with a job and a purpose. Damian planned to stay by Michael’s side, to watch and listen and learn how to be tough and lethal too.

When he was older, when he was richer, he would return to Kirkwood and kill Miles and Mr. Marshall. It was the dream that sustained him.

He and Kit arrived at the abandoned warehouse Michael had claimed for his own. It had been empty and dilapidated, but now it was thriving with activity as Michael’s employees presented him with pilfered loot he would sell for a profit.

Damian proudly handed him the purse, delighted when Michael peeked in it and saw many gold coins. He gave some of them to Damian as a reward.

“Good work, Damian.”

“Thank you.”

“How about you, Kit? Have you anything for me?”

“Not yet,” Kit mumbled.

“He will have something very soon,” Damian hurriedly interjected. “I swear.”

“You know the rules,” Michael warned.

“Everyone has to pay their own way,” Damian replied.

“That’s right,” Michael said. “In this world, no one will help you. You have to help yourself.” He glared at Kit. “You have to chip in your share, or you have to leave.”

“He’ll bring it tomorrow,” Damian said, aggravated that he bothered with Kit.

“He’d better,” Michael said.

“He will,” Damian vowed.