Silver Splendor (7 page)

Tersely Nicholas asked, “Did you report that first incident to the police?”

She tilted ner head to the side. “The hansom cab? No, should I have?”

“What cab?”

“The one that nearly ran me down —” She paused, confusion clouding her eyes. “I’m sorry, of course you meant that dreadful man who tried to strangle me. Yes, I did draw the police a likeness, but the inspector seemed doubtful he’d be apprehended.”

Nicholas wasn’t surprised. A criminal could easily vanish into the nearby Seven Dials rookery, a nucleus of crime riddled with dark alleys and winding passageways, a place into which even the police were reluctant to venture.

Feeling taut as an overwound clock, he said, “Tell me about this incident with the cab.”

“Now see here,” Owen declared, straightening his stout frame and glaring at the earl. “I’ll take care of my daughter. There’s no need to meddle in our affairs.”

“It’s all right, Papa. I don’t mind telling him. After all, he
did
save my life.” Sitting on her heels, Elizabeth plucked a glob of clay from the floor and manipulated it absently as she related the story. “I’m sure it was just an accident,” she concluded with a wave of her clay smudged hand.

But Nicholas wasn’t so certain. Deep in thought, he righted a crooked drawing tacked to the wall. It seemed incredible that three times in two weeks calamity could strike Elizabeth Hastings.

Disquieted, he addressed Owen. “This neighborhood is far too dangerous for your daughter. You cannot in all conscience keep her here.”

“That’s simple for you to say.” Owen kicked at a chisel; the tool went rolling through the debris. “Did you ever stop to think some of us can’t afford a fancy mansion in Mayfair or Belgravia?”

“Papa will find a job soon,” Elizabeth said. “Then we’ll move.”

“In the meantime,” Nicholas said, “don’t you have relatives to whom you can turn?” Reaching into the pocket of his morning coat, he drew out the signet ring and held it in the palm of his hand. “What about the owner of this?”

Owen stared, his face paling. “Where did you get that?”

“I gave it to the earl, Papa.” Elizabeth rose gracefully, the lump of clay clutched in one hand. “To reimburse him for ruining his coat sleeve when he rescued me.”

“Why, you greedy blighter!” Owen spat at Nicholas. “More wealth than the lot of us could ever dream of and you’d still make a lady reward you.”

“Think what you will,” Nicholas said stiffly. To Elizabeth, he said, “I never meant to keep the ring — when I left the other night, I’d forgotten it was in my pocket. I came here today to return it.”

She looked stunned. “Thank you.”

He stepped through the litter to gently press the ring into her clay stained palm. Her hand felt fragile yet strong; her scent was earthy yet appealing. Her bold, beautiful eyes studied him with rapt attention, and he swallowed the bitter knowledge that her interest in him was purely artistic. With dismaying quickness, his body responded to her nearness. How different their relationship would have been had she accepted his proposal. He would have possessed the right to touch more than her hand, to learn the feminine form beneath that flowing gown, to discover the womanly warmth beneath that unconventional facade.

“All right, then,” growled Owen. “You’ve done what you came here for, your lordship. Now if you’ll excuse us, my daughter and I have work to do.”

Releasing Elizabeth’s hand, Nicholas turned to the older man. “You didn’t answer my question about your relations. Why haven’t you contacted the owner of that ring?”

“What I do is no affair of yours.”

“Papa, please, don’t be rude.” Fastening the ring to the chain around her neck, Elizabeth told Nicholas, “My grandfather is dead, the rest of the family, too. I’m afraid we have no alternative but to stay here.”

Nicholas caught Owen’s eyes sliding away from his daughter, and again suspected the man was hiding something. What? Did it have something to do with the former owner of the signet? A stunning thought struck. Was Owen Hastings’s secret connected to the purportedly “accidental” threats to Elizabeth’s life?

His insides took a sickening plunge; with effort Nicholas held himself steady. The notion seemed preposterous. Why would anyone wish to murder a penniless artist? And why would her father conceal that knowledge when he appeared so devoted to her?

Yet the possibility nagged at Nicholas; he resolved to do some quiet investigating. The urge to protect Elizabeth welled within him, coupled with an inexplicable longing to keep her close. An idea hit with the force of a thunderclap, an idea that seemed the perfect solution —

“You do have an alternative,” he said. “You can move into my home and teach Cicely.”

Elizabeth stared, her lips parting in astonishment. Live in his house? See him every day? In spite of her dislike for his highbrow manner, excitement sparked inside her and her fingers dug into the modeling clay. She could study his perfection until she knew every line, every angle.

Her father snorted in disgust. “I see you change your opinions to suit your own selfish purposes. A moment ago we weren’t good enough to associate with your sister.”

The earl arched his dark brows. “Those were your words, Mr. Hastings, not mine.”

“Yet you did make it plain you didn’t want Cicely to study art,” Elizabeth stated.

“I’m beginning to realize how determined she is. Whether that determination arises from sincere interest or from stubborn defiance I cannot yet say.” He paused, his cool eyes making her feel curiously warm. “I’m willing to indulge Cicely provided she studies within the confines of her home.”

Elizabeth tried to discern the thoughts behind that handsome facade. Perhaps it was the fading light, but her skills of observation seemed to have deserted her. His words sounded reasonable, but she wondered at his abrupt turnabout. Did he still mean to make her his mistress?

Her insides tightened into a delicious knot; the day felt hot and damp in her fingers. With a shock she realized that a part of her
wanted
him to want her. Yet surely he couldn’t still desire her after the angry words she’d flung in his face.

“My daughter is too talented to work as your servant,” Owen snapped. “She’s a wonderful artist who’s managed to flourish without your patronage.”

“Indeed?” Lord Nicholas mused. “So you’ll let her remain here and risk another accident? I wonder at your lack of concern.”

Owen’s face paled. An intense look passed between the two men, a look Elizabeth couldn’t fathom. Her father opened his mouth, then tightened it to a thin line.

“How dare you imply my father isn’t concerned,” she snapped.

Owen’s shoulders slumped. “It’s all right, Libby.” To the earl, he added stiffly, “All right, then, you have my consent. Libby will move into your household.”

Flabbergasted, Elizabeth stared at her father, her fingers frozen on the clay. “I will?”

He came closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “I must do what’s best for you, Libby.” Expelling a heavy sigh, he added, “The earl is right. You aren’t safe here.”

The deep lines of suffering on his face tore at her heart. “Papa, what happened today didn’t threaten my life. The thief ran off the moment he heard us returning.”

“What about the man who tried to throttle you?”

She shuddered. Recalling Lord Nicholas’s protection, she sought his eyes. The memory of that terror retained the power to tighten her throat and hasten her heartbeat.

Looking back at her father, she said, “That incident was a misfortune, Papa, a coincidence. It could have happened to anyone.”

“It’s settled, Libby.” Releasing her, he faced the earl. “I mean to come with her.”

Picking up a drawing, Lord Nicholas gave a careless shrug. “As you wish. I’m sure your daughter would be more comfortable with you near.”

“You’ll pay her a suitable wage, I trust. I’ll not live on your charity, either. I’m planning to find a post as a teacher.”

“Perhaps I could be of assistance.”

“I’ll do well enough on my own.” Owen narrowed his hazel eyes. “And you’ll treat my Libby like the decent girl she is.”

The earl set aside the paper and his chilly gray gaze came to rest on Elizabeth. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

His voice iced over with distaste. Her fingers clenched the clay; her cheeks went hot. Her father couldn’t know just how easy a promise that was for the earl to make.

“Just one moment, both of you,” she said. “I haven’t yet agreed to anything.”

“Will you force me to remove my sister from temptation altogether?” Lord Nicholas said. “If you won’t consent to my conditions, I shall send her to the country.”

The steel in his tone told Elizabeth he meant every word… he would banish his vivacious sister. Resentfully Elizabeth knew he was playing upon her sympathies and her friendship with Cicely.

“It’s not that I object to teaching your sister. You’re asking me to give up the freedom I have here, the freedom to do my own work.”

“The freedom to lay yourself open to attack?” Lord Nicholas said dryly. “I rather doubt Cicely would take up all your time. The span of her attention tends to be rather short. You’ll have ample time to pursue your own artistic endeavors.”

Elizabeth longed to make
him
her artistic endeavor. Each time she looked at the earl she caught some fascinating detail she hadn’t noticed before… the indomitable set of his shoulders or the softening of his granite gray eyes when he spoke of his sister. She recalled the tender pressure of his hand when he had given her the ring; his skin was not calloused like a common laborer’s, but smooth and strong. Her nimble fingers worked at capturing in clay the essence of his energy.

Weakening, she said, “I’d need a studio and space to store all my tools and materials.”

“You may use my conservatory. And I will, of course, purchase whatever supplies you and Cicely should need.” In the deepening dusk the earl’s eyes were dark as graphite.
^,;
My primary concern, Miss Hastings, is to keep my sister content and happy within the bounds of propriety.”

The gentling of his voice when he spoke of Cicely persuaded Elizabeth. “All right, then.”

“Excellent. Gather up whatever you’ll need for the night and we’ll join my sister in the carriage.”

She stared. “I can’t leave now. Why, it will take days to sort this mess —”

“Be sensible, Miss Hastings. You can’t stay here.” He swept a hand around the chaotic room.

“His lordship is right,” her father said in a weighted voice, as if the admission cost him dearly.

Dismayed, Elizabeth accepted the truth. Shadows gathered in the corners, veiling her ruined treasures. Tears stung her eyes. Desolation clutched at her stomach, a sense of violation at knowing a stranger had rifled through her possessions. The item most precious of all was missing. Lord Nicholas took a step toward her, then stopped, almost as if he’d meant to comfort her and thought better of it. “I’ll send my footmen round first thing tomorrow to collect the rest of your belongings.”

“The sketchbook with my mother’s portraits —”

“I shall instruct my men to take special care to look for it.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

His smile took Elizabeth by surprise. Somehow his
face looked kinder, less imposing and more approachable. The vestiges of doubt vanished in the delight of
studying the masculine dimples on either side of his
mouth. She felt a sudden shivery longing to press her
lips there.

Her father cleared his throat. “Well, Libby, perhaps we’d best pack a few things while there’s still light to see by.”

Flustered, she pocketed the clay model of Lord Nicholas’s hand; its weight against her thigh made her imagine his skilled fingers caressing her, shaping her like a living sculpture. She wondered wistfully if warmth dwelled within the earl, if the right woman might chip away his stern marble facade and find a tender man beneath.

Confused by her wayward thoughts, she turned her attention to stuffing some personal items into her artist’s satchel. As her hands sifted through the chaos, her mind sifted through the changes taking place in her life. She couldn’t deny a simmering excitement. Did she desire only to study Lord Nicholas’s perfection?

Or had her woman’s heart taken precedence over her artist’s eye?

When they emerged into the teeming street, the sky had gone a deep slate gray. Everyone was out enjoying the balmy evening. Laughing children darted through the crowd, housewives clustered to gossip, day laborers hurried home. The ever-present odors of rubbish and smoke and cooking perfumed the air.

One of Elizabeth’s neighbors, a large-boned actress from a nearby Covent Garden theatre, gaped at the fine figure of the earl. “‘Ey, ‘andsome,” she called, wriggling her generous hips. “Need a place to lay yer ‘ead for the night?”

With haughty disdain Lord Nicholas ignored the woman, though color washed his elegant cheekbones. Elizabeth swallowed a bubble of startled amusement. The arrogant Earl of Hawkesford… embarrassed? Somehow he didn’t seem capable of such a human emotion.

They headed through the throng of people toward an opened landau at the curb. The twin coach lamps were lit against the thickening darkness.

“What the devil,” Lord Nicholas muttered.

Elizabeth spied the reason for his exclamation. Surrounded by curious spectators, Cicely sat in the carriage like a queen holding court.

The earl quickened his pace. As Elizabeth hurried to keep up, she saw Kipp standing alongside the elegant vehicle. From the elevated front seat, the stout coachman brandished his whip.

“Get on with you, lad,” he said, his voice booming above the din. “Don’t be botherin’ ‘er ladyship, or the earl’ll turn yer filthy ‘ide to mincemeat.”

Kipp planted his fists on his hips. “I ain’t afraid o’ no fancy pants earl.”

“Oh, leave off, Greaves,” Cicely said. “I tell you I know the boy.” Catching sight of her brother, she leaned over the side and Bfted a ladylike hand. “Why, hullo, Nick! Will you kindly tell Greaves to cease badgering my friend?”

Ignoring her, Lord Nicholas glared first at the impeccable livened footman, who stood at rigid attention on his rear perch, then at the coachman, who nervously bobbed his cockaded hat. “Greaves, I trust you have an explanation for why the top has been folded down?”