Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (17 page)

“I’d like that, Grandpapa.”

Frances tugged on her gloves as she descended the stairs. She didn’t want to keep Jack waiting when he’d so kindly offered to take her to see Mr. Puddington.

She turned at the landing and saw him standing in the entryway. He looked up—he must have heard her—and smiled.

Her foolish heart gave a little leap.

Damn it, what was the matter with her? She no longer knew herself.

She was tired, that was all.

“Good morning, Frances.”

“Good morning, my lord. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“No, I just got here a moment before you.” He helped her on with her cloak, and her silly heart fluttered at his nearness, at the brush of his hands on her shoulders, the scent of his shaving soap. “My curricle’s outside. Shall we go?”

“Yes indeed.” The sooner she put some distance between them, the better.

When they arrived at his curricle, he offered her his hand.

She didn’t want his help. “I can climb in myself, you know.”

He raised his brows. “Ah, but not, I think, in this lovely dress.”

He was correct. The dress was beautiful, but breeches gave her more freedom. It was too bad ladies couldn’t wear them.

His hand grasped hers, firm and strong, and her damn heart just about jumped into the carriage on its own.

She was
definitely
not herself.

Jack went around to climb into the driver’s seat, and the boy holding the horses scrambled up behind.

“You have a tiger now?” The child was about twelve, dressed neatly but not in livery, and looked vaguely familiar.

“For the time being. Sam, make your bows to Miss Hadley.”

Sam grinned and bobbed his head. Ah, now she knew where she’d seen him—at Jack’s house in Bromley.

“Hello, Sam.” She turned back to Jack. “I’m sorry that I’ve not thought to ask before—how is the baby?” She
had
thought to ask; she’d just been afraid of the answer.

Jack grinned. “Amazingly enough, it looks like he’s going to be fine.”

“Oh, thank God.”

He set the horses into motion, and she turned to study the passing scenery—far safer than admiring the man sitting next to her.

She was so tired because she’d tossed and turned all night, furious with her mother and aunt for keeping her from her grandparents and other relatives, and overwhelmed and touched—and a little frightened—by their welcome.

Her grandparents couldn’t
really
love her, of course; they just loved the idea of her. She was their second chance with their daughter. Once they got to know her and discovered how contrary she was, they wouldn’t be so enthusiastic. They’d be relieved when she disappeared back into the country.

“Did you sleep well?” Jack asked.

“Yes.” She was not about to share her turmoil with Jack. He was
not
her safe harbor: He was a whirlpool that would suck her down to disaster. She knew better than to rely on a man, especially one who was a rake. She’d accept Jack’s help just as long as she needed it, and then she’d move on.

And yet . . .

No and no. She could not think she had any future with Lord Jack.

Jack turned off the main road, navigated through a series of narrow streets, and stopped in front of a nondescript, rather sad-looking building. Sam jumped down and went to hold the horses.

There wasn’t a soul in sight, if one didn’t count the black cat that had just darted down an alley. “It seems a bit deserted.”

“Don’t worry, Puddington is expecting us.” Jack hesitated. “Frances, before we go in, I want to explain about Sam.”

“Yes?” She looked down at Sam; he grinned up at her. What in the world could there be to say about Sam?

“I didn’t bring him to Greycliffe House primarily to be my tiger, though he’s useful enough in that role today. I brought him to look after you.”

“What?”
Her brows snapped down. “Why do you think I need a boy looking after me?” The idea was both ridiculous and infuriating.

“Well, he’s not to look
after
you, of course. More look out for you.”

“And why would I need that?”

Jack’s eyes were suddenly bleak. “Belinda was found dead this morning, her throat cut.”

“Oh.” The old whore. The blood rushed from her head, and she felt a little dizzy. Belinda had been soliciting them just a few days ago in that doorway on Hart Street, and now she was dead. It was horrible, but why did Jack think it had anything to do with her? “Belinda was a . . . that is, she lived a dangerous life in a dangerous neighborhood.”

“Yes, but the Slasher isn’t killing only light-skirts, Frances. Three society women have been murdered as well—women who had questionable reputations, a category into which I’m afraid you now fall.”

“I see.” Damn it, much as it galled her to admit it, Jack was right. “But I’m smarter than those girls. And I’m not looking for any sort of assignation, so I won’t be going off into a secluded place with some man.” Unless the man was Jack—

No, not then, either.

Jack was frowning at her. “Frances, overconfidence leads to carelessness, which leads just as surely to disaster. If Nan is correct, and Ruland is the Slasher, he’s surely figured out by now that you were the ‘boy’ with me that day at the brothel. He was not happy when I evicted him from Nan’s office. If he’s looking for his next society victim, he might well look to you.”

Her stomach twisted. Yes, he might. He’d certainly been angry enough to do her an injury when he’d seen her at the brothel.

She must have turned white, because Jack laid his hand on her arm.

“I hope I’m overreacting, Frances, but we can’t take any chances. Sam knows to keep a sharp eye out, especially when I’m not with you, and get help if you need it.” His hand slid down to grasp hers. “You can do your part by remaining alert and not going anywhere alone. If you do that, you should be fine. I’m trying my best to discover the Slasher’s identity. Once he’s caught, we can all rest easier.”

“Yes. Of course.” She swallowed. Belinda was dead; her throat cut, and Ruland . . . “I’ll be careful.”

“Splendid.” He smiled at her—and her damn heart started fluttering again.

Stupid!
She watched him come around to help her alight. Jack had just told her her life was in danger, and all she could think about was his dimple.

If she didn’t leave London soon, she’d be staying for good—in Bedlam.

 

 

Puddington’s offices were up a narrow flight of stairs. Jack had Frances precede him so he could catch her if she stumbled, but the position also gave him an excellent view of her derriere and well-turned ankles—which reminded him forcibly of the long legs he’d so recently seen encased in breeches. And
that
thought had a very predictable effect on his anatomy.

He stayed behind her, shielding his misbehaving anatomy with her skirts as they entered the offices.

Puddington’s clerk—a painfully thin, stooped fellow with a large nose on which perched a pair of spectacles—stood when he saw them. He looked to be around Jack’s age, but his hairline was already receding, perhaps to escape the towering pile of papers on his desk.

“May I help you, sir?” he said, looking right past Frances. “I believe we have an appointment with Mr. Puddington.” Did the clerk not realize his life was in danger? Frances’s chin had gone up; she was clearly on the verge of explosion.

“Yes,” she said, biting off the word. “I am Miss Hadley, and this is Lord Jack.”

Comprehension of a sort dawned. The clerk’s face glowed. “Oh yes, of course. Please excuse me. Mr. Puddington has been eagerly awaiting your arrival, Lord Jack. It’s not often we have a man of your rank visit our offices. Please, come this way.”

He turned, leaving his back exposed. The fellow was exceedingly lucky Frances didn’t have a knife in her purse or he might have found it protruding from between his shoulder blades.

“Do not, I beg you, box him about the ears with your reticule,” Jack murmured.

Frances glared at him.

The clerk opened a door. “Lord Jack is here, Mr. Puddington,” he said, and then stepped aside for them to enter.

Frances’s face was now red with fury. Poor Puddington. If the man knew what was coming, he’d hide behind his desk.

Puddington was as mutton-headed as his clerk.

“Lord Jack,” he said, bowing and waddling over to greet him as they stepped into his off ice, “such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard about you, of course, but I never expected to see you in my humble place of work.”

“Mr. Puddington,” Frances said, her voice as sharp as a whip.

It got Puddington’s attention. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

She was almost vibrating with anger now. “Lord Jack was kind enough to act as my escort this morning, but your business is with me.”

Puddington, the cabbagehead, laughed, wiggled his damn eyebrows, and leaned over to whisper to Jack, “Quite fiery, ain’t she?” He chuckled. “I have to say, I didn’t believe the rumors—the girl always struck me as a bit of a cold fish, don’t you know?—but I guess they’re true. Well, you’re here with her, aren’t you?” He grinned. “I assume you wish to discuss the marriage settlements?”

Fury, colder than Jack had ever felt, flooded him, and his mind became clear and sharply focused as it did before he faced a fight in the stews. He could kill this soft, flabby fool in any number of ways, all quick and simple and painless—well, painless for him, not so painless for Puddington.

But first he had to keep Frances from beating him to it.

“This is not about marriage settlements, you bloody blockhead.” Her hands flexed as if she were within amb-sace of wrapping them around Puddington’s neck.

“Miss Hadley, such language.” Puddington looked at Jack. “Say something, my lord.”

Jack smiled coldly. “What would you like me to say?”

Puddington was not a complete idiot—he realized he was in danger. He stepped back so quickly he caught his heel and stumbled, landing on his desk and upsetting his pounce box, scattering sand all over his papers. “I just thought, given the rumors, that you’d come to discuss the f-financial arrangements.”

Jack said nothing; he just watched the sweat bead up on Puddington’s forehead and run down his fat cheeks.

“Well, you thought wrong.” Frances stabbed her index finger at him. “I have come to discuss obtaining my dowry
because I do not intend to marry anyone ever.
” She struggled to take a calming breath. “And to see if you know Frederick’s direction,” she said with slightly less venom.

Puddington ran a finger around his cravat as he slipped his handkerchief out of his pocket. He mopped his forehead. “Frederick’s direction. Yes, I have that. I’ll just get Swigert to jot it down. Please have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“You’d best hurry,” Frances said. “We do not have time to waste.”

“No. No, of course not, my lord, Miss Hadley.” Puddington bobbed a quick bow and bolted out of the room, likely looking for the nearest chamber pot.

“I think you frightened him,” Jack said as Frances sat on the edge of one of Puddington’s chairs. The heel of her right foot bounced up and down on the floor. She was still very angry.

She snorted. “I suspect your presence had more to say to that.”

He took the chair next to her, facing Puddington’s disorderly desk. “Has he always been such an idiot?”

“Yes.” She glared at him. “Though no more idiotic than most men.”

He stretched out his legs and weighed his words. He was more than a little hesitant to say anything—Frances was fiercely independent and, at the moment, blindingly angry—but he didn’t want her to feel she was alone any longer. “It cannot have been comfortable dealing with him by yourself all these years. I hope you know you can rely on me to help in any way you need, including bashing the lobcock over the head.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and a faint smile flashed over her lips before she looked down to fiddle with the strings on her reticule. “Thank you.”

Puddington bustled back into the room just then. “Here you go, Miss Hadley.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Frederick is off on his honeymoon, but he should be at this direction next week. Your father felt, of course, that as a married man, Frederick should live in a better place than Hart Street.”

Oh, damn.

Frances had been in the process of putting the paper with her brother’s location in her reticule, but her hands froze at Puddington’s words. She looked up. Her face was suddenly white; her eyes . . .

All the fire that had been there moments ago was doused. She looked like the children did when he found them wandering the streets, lost and alone.

“My . . . my f-father?” She cleared her throat. “You’ve spoken to my father?”

Puddington lowered his bulk carefully into his chair. “Oh, not recently, of course. He hasn’t been in London for at least a year.” The man smiled briefly. “Slips in and out of Town when he does come. Doesn’t want Rothmarsh or Whildon to get wind of his visits. Bad blood there, you know.” He righted the pounce box and dusted some of the sand onto the floor. “I received a letter from him two or three weeks ago with instructions about Frederick’s housing.”

“So he’s not in the South Seas?”

Devil take it, Frances’s lovely voice cracked. If her damned father were in the room now, he’d tear the man’s heart out—except the miscreant clearly didn’t have that particular organ.

Puddington shook his head. “Hasn’t been there for five years or more.”

“So where
is
Hadley senior?” Jack didn’t try to hide his anger.

Puddington threw him a nervous glance. “Somewhere in South America. Frederick will know better than I when you catch up with him. They correspond regularly about botany and such—or as regularly as distance and infrequent mail packets permit, that is.”