Viscount of Vice (12 page)

A knock sounded on the door, and she jumped to face it, hands outstretched as though to fight off an attacker. “What is that?”

“We call it knocking,” Dane said. “A polite customary way to inform others you would like admittance.”

Brook opened the door, and the Derring family jehu stood in the doorway. “Yes, Ezekiel?”

“Note came for you, sir. I thought it best if I brought it.” His gaze found the girl, and he seemed relieved she was unharmed. “Wouldn't want the other servants asking questions.”

“Thank you.” Brook closed the door and broke the seal on the letter. “Damn it.”

“What is it?” Dane asked.

“I have to go. Bow Street—”

“No.” Dane shook his head. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

Brook shrugged. “You don't have that sort of authority. I have to go.” He started for the door, and Dane moved in front of him, holding the door closed with his hand.

“Now? This moment?”

“It's urgent.”

Dane glared at him. “What am I supposed to do with her?” he asked through a clenched jaw.

Brook glanced back as though he'd forgotten her for a moment. “Clean her up. I'll take her to Lord Lyndon tomorrow.”

“If you really expect to present that girl to Lord Lyndon as his daughter, you are completely daft.”

“We'll see,” Brook said. He moved forward then gave Dane a pointed stare when he didn't remove his hand. With a curse, Dane stepped aside, and Brook was gone.

Dane turned and looked at the girl. She looked back at him, a challenge and a threat in her eyes. God save him. He'd only wanted relief from the ennui of the Season. He didn't want a she-devil to contend with. Brook had said to clean her up. Dane supposed that meant clean clothes. But there was no point in putting clean clothes on a dirty body. He'd have to make her wash.

The servants' hip bath was kept in the corner of the room. He'd only need to heat some water over the stove. Not that he knew how to work the stove. That was why he had a cook. He'd have to fetch the cook. And when he returned, the girl would be long gone. Was that such a bad thing? Dane thought not, but his brother would disagree. Dane didn't really care about ruffling Brook's feathers, but he did wonder why his brother thought this girl could be Lady Elizabeth Grafton, daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. He knew the story of little Lady Elizabeth. She'd disappeared one day in the park, and despite an exhaustive search for her, she'd never been found. The nanny had been blamed and thrown in prison, but Dane suspected the poor woman was innocent. There were men who kidnapped children to send to the colonies, or for darker reasons. Dane tried to remember more details. He'd been about ten at the time, and the little girl perhaps five. So that would make her twenty now. He glanced at the girl before him. She was about the correct age.

“If you would meet your parents, you will have to wash and change.”

“I don't have parents,” she declared. No surprise there. She was obviously the spawn of Satan.

Still, it was interesting. An enterprising thief, as she seemed to be, might see opportunity in pretending to be the daughter of a marquess. “Then you are not Lady Elizabeth Grafton?” he asked.

“My name is Marlowe.”

Dane waited.

“Just Marlowe,” she added.

“And you are not the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon?”

“I don't know the bloody man. Now, if you'll just let me go—” She attempted to push past him, but Dane—setting aside his distaste for the dirt covering her—caught her about the waist. She jumped back, and he stepped to the side before she could hit him. Looked like she had a good right hook too.

“I'm afraid I cannot let you go.”

She glared at him. “Why not?”

“So glad you asked. Two reasons, actually. First of all, my brother is a prime investigator. I don't know how he does it, but he knows information. Which leads to the second reason. If he thinks you are Lady Elizabeth Grafton, I must give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“That's a fancy way of saying I'm a liar.”

Dane spread his hands. “It is nothing of the sort.”

She crossed her arms under her ample bosom. “Really? Don't you think I know who I am? I told you my name is Marlowe. I don't know this lady you're talking about. Now, tell me again my name is Elizabeth, and you're calling me a liar.”

Dane stared at her for a long moment. Shocking to admit, but the girl had a point. He was, in essence, calling her a liar. “I didn't intend to offend you.”

“You can dress a pig up however you want, but it's still a pig.”

Now they were speaking of animals? Or was this girl more intelligent than she looked? “Are you using a metaphor?” he asked.

“No more fancy words,” she demanded. “Let me go!”

He refused to sink to her level and holler back. “There is no point in allowing you to go. My brother will only find you again.” And Dane would have to listen to a lecture for allowing the girl to escape.

“No, he won't. I can hide so I'm never found.”

She didn't know Brook. He could find anyone, and he was patient. He could wait years for a man or woman to surface. But Dane wasn't going to argue that point with her. He had others yet to be introduced. “Be that as it may,” Dane conceded, “I am not about to let you go. As I see it, you have a choice: either willingly take a bath, don clean clothing, and eat a hot meal…”

“Or?” She tapped her foot rapidly.

“Or do all of that—except perhaps the hot meal—under duress.”

“Duress?”

He smiled thinly. “I force you.”

“You think you can make me do something I don't want?” She notched her chin up in a challenge.

“Yes.”

She looked at him for a long time. He didn't know what she saw in his eyes, but finally she nodded. “All right, but you're not watching the bath.”

“Madam, I assure you, I had no intention of doing so. I will stand in the kitchen with my back turned. I give you my word as a gentleman.”

She rolled her eyes. “Some gentleman, forcing me to take a bath against my will.”

“Yes, I know. The horror.”

“And another thing.”

He sighed. “What now?”

“I'm not putting on a dress.”

He raised his brows.

“I want trousers and a shirt like you have.”

“You want to dress as a man? Why?”

“Because I do.”

“Strange,” he muttered to himself, but at this point he did not care. His mother and sister would be home soon, and he wanted the girl dealt with. Dane went to the door and called, “Ezekiel! Come here.”

The jehu must have been loitering nearby, because he appeared within seconds.

“Fetch Crawford.”

The words fell like boulders. The coachman twisted his hands together. “Crawford, my lord?” He glanced over Dane's shoulder at the girl. “Are you sure?”

No, Dane wasn't sure. He was relatively certain he'd regret involving Crawford almost immediately, but there was little about this night he did not already regret, and he was at the limit of what he could accomplish without detection. At any rate, he'd probably burn the whole kitchen down if he attempted to use the stove, even to warm water. He might be able to find the chit some food, but he had no idea where he might locate clothing that would fit her, especially if he had to keep watch over her to prevent escape.

Dane sighed and closed his eyes. “Just fetch him, Ezekiel.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Behind him he heard the girl ask, “Who's Crawford?”

“You'll see.”

Five long minutes later, a short man with a balding pate and a crooked nose that made it appear as though he looked down on everyone—although he was generally shorter than everyone—walked ceremoniously through the kitchen door. Dane thought of a king returning to his castle, and in a sense the kitchen and all of the servants' areas were Crawford's castle. “My lord,” Crawford said, bowing. His gaze immediately focused on the girl. Crawford missed nothing. “You called?”

“I need your assistance.”

“Of course, my lord.” The implication in the butler's tone was that no one, ever, accomplished anything without Crawford's assistance.

“I need warm water for a bath, food, and boys' clothing to fit this girl.” He gestured to her.

Crawford did not even blink at the odd request. “Of course, my lord. May I ask why we are washing, feeding, and dressing this…street urchin?”

“I'm not an urchin!” the girl yelled.

Crawford's gaze never left Dane's.

“She is one of Brook's projects. That is all you need to know.”

“Of course, my lord.” He turned, presumably to work his magic and accomplish all of Dane's requests, but then he turned back. “We will not be housing the creature for the night, my lord?”

Dane licked his lips. He could have used a glass of brandy right about then. “I don't know yet, Crawford.”

“Of course, my lord. Excuse me, my lord.” He made for the door, presumably to carry out Dane's orders.

“Crawford, are my mother and sister home yet?”

“I expect them at any moment, my lord.” And Dane knew how Crawford hated to be away from his post when the countess arrived. Crawford had definite opinions as to how Derring House was to be run. Dane might be the captain, but Crawford was the helmsman, and he turned the ship. He had been steering the ship for longer than Dane had been alive. He'd probably still be here when Dane was dead.

Crawford gestured to the girl. “I will not mention…
this
to the countess and Lady Susanna, my lord.”

“That would be best,” Dane agreed.

“Your father will turn in his grave,” Crawford muttered.

“What was that?”

“If that is all, my lord.”

Dane nodded. He could hardly chastise the man. His father
would
have turned in his grave. It was rooks like this girl who'd put the late earl in his grave to begin with.

Crawford departed, and Dane knew that within moments footmen and maids would swarm to carry out his orders. He moved away from the door and out of the kitchen proper so as not to be in the way. That put him in the same room with the girl again. She scowled at him, her small face screwed up in an angry snarl. He ignored her. They'd struck a bargain, and he expected her to follow it. There was no honor among thieves, but she was clearly not an idiot. She did not want him holding her down in the bath and scrubbing her.

As predicted, the swarm descended. The servants gave the girl odd looks, a few wrinkled their nose at her stench, but no one spoke any word other than what was required to accomplish his orders. Half of them must have been asleep, but they marshaled as though they'd been standing at attention, awaiting his order. The only clue that he'd interrupted what should have been a restful night were the maids whose caps did not quite cover the rags they'd tied in their hair to produce curls when they woke in the morning.

The housekeeper and Crawford did not get along, she having been in residence only six and ten years and thus still an interloper, and Dane was not surprised to see that Crawford had not roused her. Instead, the cook took charge. She bellowed orders for warm water, and Dane watched as the hip bath was moved into a small room he had not known was there. This must be where the servants bathed. The tantalizing smell of fresh meat and broth made his mouth water, and he noted the girl turned her head in the direction of the kitchen as well.

“The bath is ready, my lord,” one of the maids informed him. She held up a boy's clothing. “This was Jimmy's. It's a bit ragged, but it's clean.” She handed him the clothing. Jimmy had been a tiger and was now working his way toward becoming an under footman. “Crawford requested extra soap. There's plenty in there, and towels for drying.” She bobbed and walked away.

Only Crawford, the kitchen maid, a footman, and the cook were still about.

“Here,” Dane said, handing the clothing to the girl. “Put it on after you bathe. And use soap. A lot of soap.”

She peered into the room. It was small and dark without a window. He knew she could not escape. It was just big enough to fit the bath and one person. A lamp hung on a peg on the wall, and several towels were stacked beside the bath.

“I'm going to catch my death, sitting in water like that. It's not natural.”

“I have survived the ordeal hundreds of times.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, as though evaluating his heartiness against her own. “How do I know you won't come in when I'm undressed?”

“I give you my word as a gentleman.”

She gave a short laugh. Apparently, she knew the worth of most gentlemen's promises. He gestured to the butler. “Crawford will keep me in check should I be overcome with raging desire at the thought of you without clothing.”

“What?”

He shook his head and left her to it. In the kitchen, the cook had set out a bowl filled with some sort of hearty soup, a crust of bread, and a cup of the wine the servants drank. “I did not think it appropriate that she eat at the table, my lord,” Crawford informed him. “She may stand in here and eat.”

Dane shrugged. He didn't care what she did. “Has my brother returned?”

“No, my lord, but your mother and sister are preparing for bed. Or so I have been informed.” His tone held a measure of censure, and Dane realized he would have to make amends for the disruption he'd caused in the nightly ritual. “I only hope Lloyd was able to see all was done correctly.”

Lloyd was the head footman.

“I am certain all was done to your specifications, Crawford. Mrs. Worthing, might I trouble you for a measure of that cooking sherry?” He nodded to the bottle on a shelf behind her. It was not brandy, but it would have to suffice for the moment.