Utterly Devoted (7 page)

Cleo smiled, but the look held sadness. “I feel the same way about my Les, but I know the feeling is reciprocated.”

Eloise thought her own smile must be just as sad. “I thought the feeling was reciprocated too. But had he loved me, he would never have left.” She shook herself. “You see? If I dwell too much on the past, I will never face my future.”

Cleo had been encouraging then, but the note she sent Eloise that next morning was even more so.

“Leslie reports that Jareth Darby is mentioned in several wagers,” the letter read in Cleo’s sprawling hand, “but none that appear to include you. In fact, the only wager being made about you is whether you will accept Lord Nathaniel when he offers. Note that that is
when
he offers, not
if
. I shall shortly be wishing you happy, in several areas it seems. Your devoted friend, Cleo.”

So, the male members of the ton expected Lord Nathaniel to offer for her. The thought was rather pleasing. However, the news that Jareth was not betting on her forgiveness was simply confusing. She had been so sure by his reaction that money was at the heart of his quest. If not a wager, then what?

She was no closer to an answer when she spotted him in the crowd strolling St. James’s. He had stopped to speak with Portia Sinclair and her stepmother. His conversation was such that both were simpering. Portia’s color was nearly as bright as the pink ribbon on her serpentine spencer. Her slender hands kept fluttering over the drape of her green-sprigged muslin gown as if uncertain how attractive he found her.

On the other hand, her stepmother’s dark gown should have made her look as stern as Eloise, who was dressed in navy lustring. Yet even Mrs. Sinclair appeared to be captivated by Jareth’s charm. Her small mouth was bent in a smile; her pudgy cheeks were rosy. He was supposed to be reformed, yet there he stood for all the ton to see, making ladies’ hearts flutter.

Her blood heating, she managed an equally insipid smile as he broke off his conversation with a bow and strolled to meet her just as distant church bells rang a quarter past eleven.

“You are late, Mr. Darby,” she informed him.

He reached for the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat as if to retrieve a watch, then seemed to think better of it. He bowed instead.

“I was unavoidably detained.”

“So I saw,” she replied, gaze drawn past him to where Portia and her stepmother were watching. The older woman must have noticed Eloise’s pointed look, for she tugged on Portia’s arm to turn her away.

“Do you know Miss Sinclair?” he asked as if making polite conversation.

“Yes. An interesting young lady, to be sure, as are all the other young ladies making their debuts. Do you intend to discuss their merits as well, or shall we get on with this?”

He raised a brow. “Are we in such a hurry then? Is there some urgency to this test of yours?”

“No,” she had to admit. “But I do have other activities planned for the day, so if you wouldn’t mind?”

He bowed again. “I am at your disposal.”

She felt her mouth curl in a satisfied smile. “Excellent. Your first test, Mr. Darby, is of your humility. I was certain that must be one area in which you sought to reform.”

“Indeed; I am far more humble than when you first knew me.”

It was a pretty speech, but he spoiled it by pausing to flick a piece of dust off the lapel of his navy jacket.

“Indeed,” she said.

He glanced up, obviously noting the sarcasm in her tone. “You think that impossible? Test me as you will, madam.”

“Oh, I shall, Mr. Darby, I shall.” She turned to nod down St. James’s toward White’s. Even this early in the morning, gentlemen would be lounging by the windows. He would be easily noticed. “You see the bow window at White’s? I intend to walk past it to where St. James’s meets Picadilly. I expect you to follow behind me.”

He quirked a smile. “My angel, you are kindness itself.”

“On your knees.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You did indeed, and if you complete this feat, you will be on your way toward earning it. Your test, Mr. Darby, is to follow me the length of St. James’s on your knees, as befits a true penitent.”

He glanced up the street as if measuring the distance. She followed his gaze, noting the number of people. Ladies walked arm in arm, followed by footmen loaded with packages. Gentlemen strolled by, swinging canes of ebony and teak. Street vendors hawked wares, their cries rising over the sound of passing carriages and wagons. Urchins darted through the crowd in search of fun and a fat purse. Jareth’s eyes narrowed.

“I believe we agreed that I would not be required to do anything dangerous to my health.”

“Your physical well being, certainly. But you appear to be in fine shape, Mr. Darby. Surely a little stroll such as this is not too difficult for you.”

She was certain he would not argue the point, and she was right. Instead, he found another problem.

“But if I follow you in such a manner, will not people remark upon it? How will you answer without revealing our past?”

Although she had already considered the matter, she felt herself blushing. “If we are questioned, we will simply say that you offended me at Almack’s and seek now to assure me of your utter devotion. You are utterly devoted, are you not?”

“I am your abject servant,” he gritted out, though his gaze continued to assess the street before them.

“Then I am certain this test will not present a problem for you,” she replied with a smile. “Will you try my test or are you willing to admit that you are not so changed after all?”

He turned his gaze on her then, and she felt the heat of it. “I have changed, Eloise. If this is what it takes to prove it to you, then I accept.”

She should have been disappointed that he did not give up right away, but instead she felt an absurd sense of pleasure. “Very well, then. Down you go.”

He knelt on the pavement. His light-blue trousers strained against the muscles of his legs and outlined his powerful thighs. Flustered that she had noticed, Eloise whirled and started off down St. James’s. Immediately he called out.

“Not so fast, blast it! You never said this was a race.”

She slowed, biting back a smile. If he wanted to prolong his torture, who was she to argue?

She schooled her steps to a saunter and opened her lace-edged blue parasol to shield her from the sun. To her immense satisfaction, people began to stare. She did not have to glance back at him to know he was there. The looks of those passing assured her that he was a sight. When the crowd and carriages thinned momentarily, she even heard the shuffle of his boots as he dragged them along.

“You had better pick up your knees, Mr. Darby,” she called back. “Your valet will have apoplexy if you ruin the shine of your boots.”

“I have no valet,” he informed her testily.

“Just as well,” she replied, giving her parasol a twirl, “as I expect the knees of your trousers will not survive either. I would not want to give the poor man reason to leave you when you return home in rags.”

His response was a disgusted grunt.

They continued down the street. Some people grinned when they saw her shadow. Others raised a brow or scowled in censure at such a display. Eloise kept her head up. Well did she remember similar looks on the faces of her schoolmates when she had been brought to the headmistress’ office.

Cleo had felt compelled to confess what she had seen in the hayloft. Now Eloise knew her friend had been trying to help, but then she had only felt betrayed yet again. Cleo thought Miss Martingale would understand Eloise’s predicament, perhaps even insist that Jareth Darby do right by her. Eloise would never forget the headmistress’ words.

“I am very disappointed in you, Miss Watkin. I expected better.”

She felt her smile slipping now at the memory and forced it back into place. She had survived the humiliation that was the consequence of her choice. Now it was Jareth’s turn.

And humiliation it was. Ladies of quality crossed the street to avoid being seen near him. Gentlemen refused to meet his gaze. The street vendors pointed and laughed. Some went so far as to stop traffic for her as they crossed King Street. A daring urchin threw a half-eaten apple. Eloise did not turn to look at Jareth, but she knew he must be mortified.

Yet as they continued down St. James, she began to notice different expressions on those they met. Ladies’ faces puckered. Gentlemen looked thoughtful. Street vendors sobered, and urchins sighed. She could not imagine what they saw in him until she heard Jareth’s voice.

“Alms! Alms for the poor!”

She whirled, nearly colliding with him. He had his top hat in one hand and already it rattled with coins. Somewhere along the route he had found charcoal or soot, for he’d smeared it across his forehead and cheeks until he looked like chimney sweep. His coat was dusty, his shirt tail hung out in damp folds, and he’d gone through one knee of his trousers to show cool skin wearing raw. When she gasped in surprise, he grinned, and she realized he had been sucking in his lips to appear toothless as well.

“Give a poor bloke a shilling for vittles, milady?” he whined, holding out his hat.

She pushed it away. “Stop that at once!”

“Now, now, Miss,” scolded an older gentleman just passing. “We must be patient with those less fortunate.” He dropped a penny in Jareth’s hat and continued on.

“Go’ bless yer, guv,” Jareth called after him.

“You are impossible,” Eloise declared. “You have failed, sir. Take yourself off this minute.”

“On the contrary,” he replied. “I intend to continue the length of the street. Press on, my dear.”

“I refuse to have you following me like this!”

He shook his head. “You must. You promised: no paradoxes. I cannot follow you down the street if you refuse to lead.”

She glared at him. Around her, people continued about their lives, dropping coins in Jareth’s hat, casting her curious glances. Now she was the object of scorn. She could not allow him to get the best of her. She faced forward, resolute.

“Unclean!” she cried. “Clear the street! Typhus!”

People paled, cried out, and scuttled away from them as fast as they could. She waved her hands and set off at a sharp pace. “Typhus! Yellow fever! Make way!”

Behind her she heard Jareth curse as he tried to keep up.

By the time she reached Piccadilly, she was nearly out of breath and the area around them was nearly empty of passersby. Turning, she waited while Jareth waddled up to her. He was sweating from the effort, the moisture making his blackened face more disreputable until he looked the villain she named him. Yet he was grinning.

“Clever girl. Here.” He held out his top hat as he climbed gingerly to his feet. He could not quite hide the grimace at the pain the movement caused him. Glancing down, she saw blood soaking the edges of his torn trousers.

Guilt assailed her. “You’re hurt.”

He seemed to notice the wound for the first time and shrugged. “Nothing serious. And the price is small if it brings me closer to your forgiveness.”

She swallowed and pushed his hat back at him.

He waved it away. “Keep it. You must know a good charity. Only tell me I passed this test.”

“You passed,” she acknowledged as he tucked in his shirt. “Though I question who feels the more humbled at the moment.”

His smile was wry. “I doubt you could surpass me there. I will own that your test gave me more than a moment’s pause.”

“Yet you turned it into a game,” she protested with reluctant admiration.

He spread his hands. “What would you have me do? Gnash my teeth and tear my clothes?”

She glanced pointedly at his oozing knee. He chuckled. “Very well. You achieved a partial victory. Look on the bright side. You have more opportunities to torment me. Now, if you don’t mind, I prefer to return home and tend to my leg.”

He bowed, then turned to go. Though he tried to hide it, she could see he was limping. Pride warred with guilt. She reached out a hand.

“Jareth, Mr. Darby, wait.”

He looked her askance.

“My carriage waits around the corner. Please let me see you home.”

She thought he might refuse, but after a moment’s hesitation he nodded. She led the way.

Chapter Eight

Where does Lord Watkin find such condemning servants?
Jareth wondered as he climbed stiffly into the lacquered Watkin carriage behind Eloise. The butler had been bad enough but the coachman was worse. He looked rail thin in the dark livery of the household, and his sharp blue eyes glared at Jareth as if the fellow suspected him of bloodying his knee just to wrangle a ride.

The truth was that the blasted knee throbbed, and Jareth wasn’t sure he could have made it home on his own. As it was, he refused to let Eloise take him to his ugly little rooming house. He’d have her drop him at the Fenton, which wasn’t too far. He could only hope he could hobble the rest of the way. He seated himself gingerly across from Eloise on the brown velvet upholstery and bit back a grunt of pain as the coach jolted forward.

She frowned, dark brows gathering. “Your knee appears to be swelling.”

He leaned forward to check. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but what he could see through the rent in his trousers was raw and puffy. He straightened and offered her an encouraging smile. “Ah, well. You never said the tests would be easy.”

Her exquisite eyes were clouded. “No, but I assure you, I did not intend to cripple you.”

“Merely castrate me?”

He watched as the color surged up her cheeks. “Surely any number of fathers and husbands have tried the same,” she retorted, head high.

“No fathers,” he replied, “and only one husband.”

Her gaze focused on her gloved fingers as they worried at the fabric of her soft navy gown. “Then the tale of your flight from London is true.”

He leaned back, suddenly weary. “That depends. Which tale have you heard?”

She glanced up to meet his gaze head on. “I was told you tried to seduce Lady Hendricks and were driven off by her husband at gun point.”

He could feel his face settling into forbidding lines. “That is a lie.”