Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (9 page)

“It is only that to meet your deadline with my current workload—”

“Yes, I quite understand, but here’s the thing: Miss Chambers requires clothing due to an unfortunate circumstance that left her with nothing save the dress she is now wearing.” His voice grew lower with each word spoken until Madame Charmaine was leaning toward him in an attempt to properly hear. “A sad state of affairs indeed for a lady to have to go about with only one dress to see her through, wouldn’t you agree? What will it cost me to have you open up your schedule for her?”

“My lord, it’s quite impossible. I have an incredible number of orders to fulfill—”

“Shall we say double the outrageous amount you were going to charge me anyway?”

The woman glanced at the fabrics, the ceiling, the floor, and Evelyn could see her calculating. “I suppose I could see my way clear to complete an item or two within the week.”

“Splendid. I so admire the rare woman who exhibits good sense. I’ve no doubt that we shall get along famously. I shall want to approve all designs and fabrics.”

“An unusual request. Most gentlemen don’t care, but I’m sure I can accommodate. I shall need to get some measurements.”

“Excellent.”

Evelyn had watched the entire encounter with a measure of horror. Did he think the moon and stars revolved around him? That only his wants and needs mattered? What of her other customers?

He turned to her. “I have some things to see to. I’ll return for you within the hour. Enjoy your time with Madame Charmaine.”

The bell above the door tinkled when he went out. How could it sound so innocent when someone so determined passed beneath it?

“The elusive Rafe Easton. I daresay I’d never expected to cross paths with him,” Madame muttered. “However did you manage to find yourself tangled up with one of the lost lords of Pembrook?”

Evelyn turned to her. “The lost lords?”

“Do you live beneath a rock?”

Evelyn fought not to start laughing maniacally. “No, just in a residence, protected by my father, the Earl of Wortham.”

“Ahhh.” Madame looked at her with sympathy. “I’ve heard a bit about that. The good news I suppose is that you’ve landed with a man who will do everything to protect you.”

“But he was so insistent that you put everyone else’s needs aside and see to mine.”

She scoffed. “Negotiations, my dear. I’ll charge him triple. He won’t know the difference. And you shan’t tell him.”

“I’m not certain I would try to cheat him.”

“Oh, he may bark very loudly, but I don’t think he bites women. Not if the way he looked at you is any indication. Now come along to the back room. You’ll need to remove your clothing so I can get proper measurements.”

“Why did you call them the lost lords?” Evelyn asked as she followed Madame into a small room.

As Madame helped Evelyn out of her clothing, she said, “Now that’s a story. When they were lads, they disappeared after their father died. Rumors abounded. Some said they’d fallen ill. Some that they were murdered by gypsies. Some that they were eaten by wolves. Then I suppose it was . . . what, three years ago? Something like that. I remember because Lady Mary—who is now the Duchess of Keswick—had just come to London, and I’d made her a ball gown. Anyway, the lords appeared at the ball. Caused quite the stir.”

“Where were they all those years?”

“Keswick was in the army, fought in the Crimea. Ghastly business that. Lord Tristan returned as captain of a ship, so I assume he was on the sea. Lord Rafe was about here somewhere. Not much is known of him. He shuns Society, or perhaps it shuns him.”

Evelyn thought of the empty feeling of his residence, the way he had sat alone during her
coming out,
his gruff manner, his rule that she could never hold him. She wondered if his claiming her for a mistress had nothing at all to do with Ekroth, but with his own loneliness.

L
eaving his carriage near the dressmaker’s, Rafe strode with purpose down the street. He needed a sweet, a nice, hard, sugary sweet. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such a craving. He wanted something to make him feel good instead of like a rotten bastard.

Whatever had overcome him to press the dressmaker as he had? It was Eve, dammit all. The look of mortification and a wish for death that had crossed her face when she realized that an inconsequential shop owner had determined her purpose in Rafe’s life—and disapproved of it. Who was this woman to disapprove of anything he did?

He was providing Eve with a sanctuary. Yes, she had to pay a price for it, but then nothing in life came free. Not even freedom. It was the highest price of all.

To make matters worse, he’d fallen back on his heritage to get the respect he wanted for Eve. Lord Rafe Easton. He’d not referred to himself as lord since Sebastian’s place was secure. He couldn’t be more disappointed in himself. He was his own man. He didn’t need to tie himself in with his brothers to gain what he desired.

But he had been angry, so very angry that Eve was feeling as though she was less than she was, that she appeared to be on the verge of tears. But she had been strong enough not to shed them, and that had made him want to take a lash to himself.

Finally, to his immense relief, he caught sight of a sweet shop. He opened the door as two ladies were coming out. He tipped his hat and as soon as they were through, he charged inside. Some little imp of a girl was standing beside an older scruffy-looking lad, holding his hand, trying to decide what she wanted. He could see a penny clutched in the boy’s grip. A penny’s worth of candy. How long was this going to take?

Children. He would never have any. Didn’t want them, wouldn’t know what to do with them. Still, this girl drew his attention, a blue ribbon holding her blond tangled hair from her face while it flowed down her back. He imagined Eve at that age. Had she ever held her brother’s hand, had he ever looked out for her? Why had her father not arranged to see that Eve was properly taken care of after his death? Surely he was not blind to the fact that his son was lacking in character.

Perhaps he thought leaving her to her brother’s care would force the man to grow up, to assume responsibility, to learn to put someone before himself. Instead, he’d followed his nature and selfishly rid himself of her as soon as possible in a way that profited him, selling off her things. He wished she’d asked for more than a portrait and a horse, because he’d have acquired the whole blasted house if she’d wanted it. Not because he cared for her, but because it would have been the right thing to do. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to do anything simply because it was the right thing to do.

Last year sometime. When Tristan had needed his help to locate the man everyone thought should marry Anne. And two years before that when he’d attended balls that he didn’t want to attend, in order to ensure Sebastian’s rightful place in Society. And since then he’d cared only about what he wanted. Maybe he wasn’t that different from Wortham. The thought sickened him—that he might have anything in common with that scapegrace.

The child was sucking on her finger now and dancing on the tips of her toes. The clerk behind the counter gave him an I’ll-be-with-you-in-a-moment look that truly meant I may never be with you.

“Come on, Lizzie. Pick sumfink,” the lad said.

Yes, Lizzie,
Rafe thought.
Pick something.

“Dunno. They’re all so pretty.”

The clerk sighed, pursed his lips. “May I help you, sir?”

“A dozen peppermint humbugs.”

As the clerk scooped the light and dark brown striped hard candies into a sack, Rafe’s mouth began to water. He’d gone too long without the indulgence. As soon as the clerk handed over the sack, Rafe dug out one of the hard nuggets, popped it into his mouth, and savored the sweetness.

The girl looked up at him with wide blue eyes, not the shade of Eve’s, but still a color that would draw men to her as she got older. He extended the bag toward her. “Here, you may have the rest.”

The boy pulled her nearer to his side, and put his arm protectively around her narrow shoulders. “We dun know ye. Wot ye be wantin’?”

Street children then, old enough to already have learned not to trust. It was a hard lesson, one Rafe had not excelled at quite quickly enough. He’d innocently taken food offered by a fellow named Dimmick, and before he knew it he became one of Dimmick’s lackeys, doing what he was ordered to do because the man’s punishments generally involved mutilation of some sort.

“Nothing, lad. I simply misjudged how hungry I was. The clerk can’t take them back once he’s handed them over. I’m not of a mood to toss them in the garbage bin. Do you want them or not?”

He could see the boy struggling, the fingers of the hand not holding the coin twitching. He wanted to reach for the offering, but he feared the price.

“I loike Wellington sticks,” the lass said. “They’re pretty.”

Their red, blue, and yellow stripes were colorful, but then most hard candy was brightly colored. Rafe had been intrigued by it all as a lad. He would sit for hours sucking on one after another.

“A dozen Wellington sticks,” Rafe told the clerk.

“Very good, sir.” He pulled the lid off a jar. With each stick he removed, the girl’s eyes brightened further.

When the sack was full, the clerk held it out. Rafe took it and offered it to the girl. She lacked her brother’s reserve. She snatched it with tiny hands. With an arched brow, Rafe again offered the humbugs to lad.

He skewed up his mouth, grabbed the bag and the girl’s hand, and darted for the door. Suddenly the girl was back, her scrawny arms wrapped tightly around his leg. His breath caught as he stiffened, fighting not to kick her off, not to send her flying across the shop, through the large window that looked out on the street. She couldn’t weigh more than a feather and yet he was immobilized as though heavy metal chains had been wrapped about him. The world began to retreat as darkness hovered at the edge of his vision. He ran his tongue over the hard candy in his mouth and concentrated on the sugar. Sweet, sweet sugar.

“Come on, Lizzie!” the boy yelled.

Yes, go, Lizzie, for God’s sake, go.

She released her stranglehold and raced out the door, followed by the lad.

Rafe forced out a long slow breath, fought to calm his racing heart as mortification threatened to swamp him. How could a mere slip of a girl unman him so?

“So is that it for you today, then, sir?”

The voice came from far away, through a tunnel. He couldn’t go out into the streets yet. He’d be staggering on unsteady legs.

He managed to turn toward the clerk, to hold his face in a mask of boredom. “No, I’ll take a large box of chocolates as well.”

The clerk gave a nod and reached for a dark brown box. “The large box holds twelve pieces and we offer a variety of twenty-four. Which would you like?”

Something to concentrate on. Good. He was beginning to feel more like himself. He looked at the display case and the assortment of chocolates. The various shapes, the tiny decorations on each of them. “Doesn’t matter.”

The clerk reached for a dark square.

“No, not that one,” Rafe said. “The one in the shape of a leaf.” Eve would like that one. It was intriguing with all the little lines carved in it.

“Very good, sir.”

“Then the clover . . . and the diamond-shaped one. But not the heart.” Wrong message would be sent there. He ended up selecting all the pieces because it seemed the clerk was a poor judge of what would appeal to a lady. He wasn’t certain when he decided the chocolates would be for Eve, or why it was important to him that the box contained the proper pieces for her. She might not even enjoy chocolate.

With box in hand, he strode from the shop and headed back toward the dressmaker’s. They should be finished by now. The farther he walked, the heavier the package became. It wasn’t something she’d asked for. Why did he even think she might desire it? She might misinterpret its purpose. Think he’d begun to develop feelings for her, or worse, that he cared.

Whatever had he been thinking to spend fifteen precious moments selecting bits of chocolate?

He spotted a bedraggled woman curled in a corner, pressed against some steps. He hardly broke his stride as he bent down and set the box beside her.

“Thank ye, kind sir!” she yelled after him.

Kind? If he was kind, he’d let Eve go. But then if he was kind, he never would have taken her to begin with.

W
hen Evelyn heard the bell above the door tinkling, she knew it was him. She didn’t know how she knew. It should sound the same no matter who opened the door, and yet she knew.

Madame had just finished helping her dress—for which she was grateful. She suspected he wouldn’t care if she was clothed or not. If he wanted to see her, he would barge into the back room and see her.

Madame arched a brow. “You think it’s him.”

“How do you know?”

She smiled. “A little shiver went through you. Is he a good lover?”

She felt the heat of embarrassment swarm over her face, over her body.

“How can you be so innocent?” Madame asked.

“I should probably go.” She didn’t know why she walked with such purpose, why she didn’t linger. Being back in his company meant she might indeed discover if he was a good lover—tonight. How much of a reprieve was he giving her?

It
was
him. He was studying the bolts of cloth again. He held his hat in one hand, had removed his glove from the other, and was rubbing red silk between his fingers and thumb. His movements were so incredibly slow, as though he was savoring the sensation of each thread as he touched it. Would theirs be a leisurely mating? Would he relish the feel of her skin as much as he did the cloth?

Ever so casually he glanced over, his lids half lowered as though he wanted to shutter his thoughts, not that she would have been able to read them anyway. “Are you finished with the measurements?”

“We are, my lord,” Madame said, and Eve could have sworn that Rafe cringed, although the change to his expression happened so quickly that had she not been focused on him, she’d have not seen it.