How I Met My Countess (19 page)

There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. A wary light to his glance. A bit of grey at his temples. He’d gone into the war full of duty and obligation, but obviously he’d seen the other side of it.

A dark world of deeds and errands that most agents rarely talked about, not even in their reports, and she’d learned of it only as her father had lain dying, delirious and lost in his past, confessing his sins as his fever had grown, as if she’d been a priest to grant him forgiveness.

So the trenches had touched Clifton as well. How could they have not?

And added to that had been the loss of Malcolm. He and Malcolm had been more twins than half brothers. As if the entirety of their personalities had been placed in two halves. Funny, reckless Malcolm and serious, top-lofty Clifton.

And now he needed her help.

Her help.
Oh, the irony of it.

For a moment, as Clifton had kidnapped her her heart had gone wild, beating with a tremulous rhythm.
He’s here. He’s back. He remembers his promise.

He wants to apologize.

When Clifton had raised his gaze to hers, taken her in his arms and nearly kissed her, she, being the romantic fool, had thought he would ravish her into succumbing to him once again, believed he intended to make amends.

Would beg for her forgiveness.

And quite frankly, he’d have to beg to gain it. At the very least, he’d have to display a respectable amount of groveling …

And kissing …

She did have her standards after all. Despite what she’d told Aunt Bedelia.

But then he hadn’t. He was here because he needed her help. Not her heart, not her love.

She tried not to think of the consequences, of getting herself any further mired in any of this, but she needed to know everything he knew.

If she was going to upend him.

“Is that all he told you? This canary of Strout’s?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Apparently Strout hasn’t the confidence in the man to let him know where he keeps the key to the safe.”

“Truly?” she mocked. “How untrustworthy of Mr. Strout.”

So there they were. What he truly wanted from her. Her ability to open Strout’s safe. Without this hidden key.

Clifton looked directly at her, in a measured way that made Lucy shiver. “So you can see why I need you.”

I need you.

That was all her foolish heart heard.
He needs me.

To steal for him. To lie for him. To do his dirty work.

But not how you want him to want you
.

She shook her head. “And then what? Am I to accost the other Lady Standons as you did Minerva the other day?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I will admit, that was a miscalculation on my part—”

“Truly?” she asked sweetly, smiling with that wonderful expression of noble condescension that was the Duchess of Hollindrake’s specialty.

“Yes, rather. But you have to admit, I haven’t been in Society for some time. I fear my manners are a bit lacking.”

Lucy bit her lips together for fear that what she wanted to say would come bursting out.

If your manners were a bit lacking, we wouldn’t be just sitting here talking. You wouldn’t have kidnapped me for some tête-à-tête. We’d be tangled up, kissing, making an utter disgrace of polite manners.

He continued on, oblivious to the nature of her thoughts. “—I just need you to make some inquiries, discreetly of course, to discover what her connection to my brother might be, and most importantly why she has control of his estate.”

“Why ever do you need to know all this, my lord? Whatever does Malcolm’s money have to do with you?”

And then she remembered the gossip from earlier.

He had pockets to let, and she knew him to be too proud to go begging by means of marrying an heiress.

And once he got Malcolm’s money?

Oh, it may not be Lady Annella, but he’d be looking for his lady love very soon. Hadn’t that always been his plan?

“I will have to consider a lady’s bloodlines … Her education should be impeccable, and I will have to examine her suitability, her countenance, the way she holds herself in public …”

An image of some graceful Original entwined with Clifton danced through Lucy’s stormy thoughts. Because, just as her father had warned her, Lucy wasn’t good enough for him.

Any more than she should have been the Marchioness of Standon.

Lucy Ellyson, the daughter of a thief and the infamous contessa, was who she was, all she’d ever be.

But that didn’t mean she was a fool.

Sitting up straight, tipping her head to stare at him down the tip of her nose, she said, “What you really want, what this scandalous stunt was about, is that you want me to get that will for you. To steal it.”

He didn’t bother to say a word. Clifton just gave her a single nod.

She drew a deep breath to steady her trembling arms, the fury growing inside her. “So, let me see if I have this correct. You want me to help you steal money from a widow?”

He took her air of confidence as some misplaced admiration for his outrageous request. “Exactly. Goosie, you are just the one for the job.”

Oh, if he only knew.

“Set me down,” she said, pointing at the door of the carriage. “Set me down now.”

He ignored the chill in her voice. “Lucy, you must help me, you are the only one who—”

Lucy stopped listening, for all she heard was her father’s warning ringing in her ears.

“You’ll always be the daughter of a thief …”

“—you see how it is, don’t you? I’d wager every last farthing I have that Malcolm’s will is in Strout’s safe. I’ll never get that lock open. You know it, and I know it. You’re the best one for the task. The only one.”

She shook her head, shaking off the way his smooth coaxing tones appealed to her heart. Left her leaning toward him. Left her wishing … “No!”

He sat back and gaped at her. “No?”

Lucy leaned forward and poked a finger into his solid chest. “No!”

Then, moving with the speed of, shall one say, a thief, she caught up his walking stick and rapped it as hard as she could to the ceiling. The driver reacted immediately, pulling the carriage to a quick stop.

And the moment the carriage jerked to a halt, she was out the door, hurling his walking stick back at him so he had to duck out of the way. In those precious seconds, she strode to the curb, shaking her skirts out as she went.

“Damn him, damn him to hell,” she muttered, ignoring the looks of the shocked bystanders on Bond Street.

Oh, yes, this was just exceedingly perfect. Her adventure was being witnessed by half the gossips of the
ton
. The duchess would hear about this display before her afternoon tea, and Lucy would wager that she would be packed off to the Scottish hunting box by suppertime.

If she was allowed even that roof over her head.

But by now her temper, her infamous temper, the one that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, had the better of her, and she didn’t care if the Duchess of Hollindrake sent her to the wilds of Nova Scotia.

For it was the same wrong-headed, obstinate, misguided faith that had urged her to brazenly tell her father that the Earl of Clifton loved her and would return for her.

“Lucy, for God’s sake, why won’t you help me?” Clifton asked from the door of his carriage.

Hands fisted to her skirts, she ground her teeth together before she said, “Because, you great pompous ass, I’m Lady Standon.”

What do you mean you aren’t coming with us to Lady Gressingham’s soiree tonight?” Aunt Bedelia complained when Lucy came downstairs to explain that her megrim would prevent her from attending.

An ailment, more specifically, by the name of Clifton.

“You must attend,” Elinor told her. “We all agreed. We would come out in Society together and make a united front. If you remain at home, it will only add to the rumors.”

There was a moment of strained silence in the foyer, for Elinor was speaking all too clearly about Clifton’s scandalous behavior in Madame Verbeck’s shop.

Which had been mentioned by nearly every caller they’d had that afternoon, inquiring about Lady Standon’s “unfortunate encounter.”

“Yes, your absence will only serve to fuel the gossip,” Minerva added.

Lucy had been able to convince her friends that Lord Clifton’s actions had been but leftover grief from his years on the Continent. “Battle madness,” she’d told them.

Let all of Society think the earl around the bend,
Lucy had mused.
That ought to help his marriage prospects.

Aunt Bedelia had waved her off and declared the earl a menace to decent women. “He should be locked up!”

That would be convenient
, Lucy had thought when the lady had pressed for the Watch to be called, but she’d demurred only because she’d known Clifton was already engaged for the evening—escorting Lady Annella to the Gressinghams’.

And that was all she needed—one night with him out of the way.

“Lucy, couldn’t you rally, just for this evening,” Elinor pleaded softly.

“No, no, I fear not,” Lucy said, wavering on her feet. She’d never had a headache in her life, so she hadn’t the slightest idea how to appear too delicate to go on, but she did her best. “I do believe I might be more ill than I thought.”

She collapsed onto the settee and covered her face with the back of her hand.

Really, all she had to do was think about Clifton marrying that mealy-mouthed Lady Annella and she did feel quite queasy.

Still, that didn’t appease her guilt when she saw the look of concern Minerva and Elinor were sharing. They thought her quite stricken.

“Well, Aunt,” Minerva said, “it would be a greater disaster if Lucy were to faint in the middle of the soiree. Imagine the speculation that would surround us then.”

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Bedelia agreed, wagging a finger at her niece, the feathers in her turban bowing in kind. “Point well made, Minerva.” She turned to Mrs. Clapp, who stood hovering by the doorway. “Take your poor mistress upstairs and have Mrs. Hutchinson brew her a nice cup of chamomile. It does for both megrims and other upsets.”

“Certainly, Lady Chudley,” Clapp told Minerva’s overbearing relation, hustling over to Lucy and lending her a hand to rise from the sofa. Clapp viewed the formidable Aunt Bedelia with a heroic state of awe. “A cup of tea and I shall sit with her myself, my lady.”

“Oh, no!” Lucy protested a little too enthusiastically. The other women paused and stared at her. She slumped over a bit and clung to Clapp. “It is just that I don’t like to leave Mickey unsupervised. Dear Clapp, doesn’t our little darling need a bath this evening?”

“Yes, but—” Clapp protested.

“Oh, I would be ever so much more rested knowing that he is clean and properly tucked into bed.”

So he doesn’t get up and come looking for me,
she didn’t add.

Besides, she knew that giving Mickey a bath would wear Clapp down to her last bit of worry, and the old girl would then drop into her bed and sleep until the dawn.

Which is exactly what Lucy needed.

The ladies began to file out the door, with Aunt Bedelia herding them with the sharp eye of a border collie. But that didn’t mean she still didn’t have Lucy under her watchful gaze.

“Lucy, you will attend the Burton ball tomorrow night,” Aunt Bedelia told her as Lucy made her careful way up the steps, keeping up the appearance that she was about to be overcome at any moment. “There will be no more of these megrims, my girl. No matter how convenient they prove.”

With that, the lady swept out the door, and before Mr. Mudgett could close it, she was already chastizing Elinor and Minerva as if they were a pair of ungainly debutantes. “I don’t know if that primrose color suits you, Elinor. I think you would do better in a fine shade of blue. Minerva, whatever were you thinking, buying those gloves? Thankfully, I always carry a spare pair.”

Lucy hurried up the rest of the steps, leaving Clapp in her wake.

“Lucy, you musn’t overtax yourself. Remember what Lady Chudley—” she chided when she caught up with her. “Oh, heavens, what are you doing?”

Lucy had stripped off her gown and was in the process of pulling on a pair of black breeches. “Now, Clapp, don’t you fret, but I haven’t any megrim or ailment, but I fear I have a bit of business to attend to this evening and you must keep my disappearance a secret.”

Clapp’s hand covered her gaping mouth as Lucy ducked into a grey shirt and then a black coat. She tugged a black cap over her hair, then bent to haul a pair of soft boots out from under her bed.

“Oh, my lady, none of this bodes well!” Clapp protested.

“No, my good Clapp!” Lucy assured her, hauling the woman into a hug. “It is our future I am after. I’ve a fortune to claim.”

For after Lucy had gotten over her anger at Clifton, she had realized he had also given her a ticket out of the duchess’s prison.

If Malcolm had left a fortune, she wasn’t about to miss the opportunity it would afford her. Perhaps she could even purchase the house in Hampstead and return with Mickey and her servants to the place and life she loved.

The earl’s plan—for her to steal the will— was perfect, except she had no intention of including him in such a caper. If Malcolm’s will was in Strout’s office, then she would steal it while Clifton was occupied with escorting Lady Annella to the Gressinghams’ ball.

With the rest of proper Society.

Lucy, for one, was done with propriety.

Rolling through the streets of London, she sat next to Thomas-William, trying to appear as innocuous as just another servant going about their master’s business, but inside she was buoyant with the prospect before her.

“I don’t like this, Miss Lucy,” he said for about the twentieth time.

“I would think you would find this a bit more entertaining than spending the night listening to Mrs. Hutchinson complain about Mr. Otter’s dietary restrictions.”

Thomas-William rolled his gaze upward, for that much was true.

“And,” Lucy said, continuing her argument, “when was the last time you had a good old adventure? When the last time you went house-breaking?”

“Bah,” he scoffed. “Likely end up getting hung.”

“What? Are you afraid of getting caught? Has your advanced age caught up with you and left you incapable of a simple burglary?”

His brow furrowed into a thick line. If there was one thing Thomas-William didn’t like to be reminded of, it was his age—not that he’d ever revealed exactly how old he was. “It’s that pair you sent for. I don’t trust them.”

“What? Rusty and Sammy? You know as well as I that they are the finest around,” she said in all confidence.

“Aye, but can you trust them?”

Now it was Lucy’s turn to blanch. There was that.

Oh, Rusty and Sammy were a knock-up pair of ken crackers, but they were also used to making off with everything that wasn’t nailed down, and Lucy couldn’t have that.

“That is exactly why I need you, Thomas-William. I daresay you are the only man in London they fear. If you tell them not to steal as much as a penknife, they will abide by your orders.”

He snorted, as if he no more believed her flattery than he had any confidence that Rusty and Sammy could keep their hands in their pockets once they’d gotten the door to Strout’s office open.

Lucy sat back in her seat and tried not to feel overly smug. Oh, wouldn’t the earl be furious then.

Serve him right. And go far in taking that arrogant smile off his face. The one he’d worn after he’d kidnapped her.

Well, tonight the tables would turn.

“There it is,” Thomas-William said with a slight tip of his head as they drove past the building.

She remembered it well. “Does he still keep his offices on the ground level and live above?”

“Aye. And the clerks are in the attic. According to one of the lads who works down the street, Strout bought the building a few years back.”

“He owns the building?” Lucy made no effort to mask her surprise.

“Aye, and the ones adjoining,” he said, having spent most of the afternoon doing the necessary surveillance. “Bit odd, don’t you think? Seems rather rich pickings for a fellow like him.”

“However could he afford to own so much property, and right here adjacent to Lincoln Fields, no less?” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the row of proper houses and shops that ran down the street.

“Thought as much myself,” Thomas-William said.

“And if Mr. Strout didn’t deign it important enough to let us know of Malcolm’s will, what other secrets do you think he might be hiding?”

Thomas-William’s brow furrowed again, for he could see the suspicious wheels turning inside her thoughts. “Now, Miss Lucy, we aren’t going to spend any more time inside that man’s offices than it takes to open his safe and get what we need.”

“I know, but there is something not right about all of this.”

“Remember your father’s advice,” Thomas-William whispered as he handed her down. “Don’t take the next step if you don’t know what you’ll find.”

She nodded in agreement, though she was thinking of another bit of her father’s wisdom.

Like a dog who bites, a thief rarely steals just once.

Thomas-William was right, of course; they must get in and out quickly and undetected. But she couldn’t shake an undeniable sense of ill ease. Something wasn’t right about all this.

He turned the cart down another street and then into an alleyway that meandered behind the houses. He pulled it into an empty mews and jumped down. After leading the horse around so it now pointed out the alley—just in case they needed to make a hasty exit—he tied the animal to the hitching post with a light hand.

She glanced up as two figures slid out of the shadows.
Speaking of dogs who bite
.

Her father’s former cohorts said not a word in greeting, professionals that they were, but Sammy couldn’t resist reaching over and giving her a light chuck under her chin.

He winked at her and smiled broadly.

Lucy hadn’t seen the pair in at least two years, and it warmed her heart to have them flanking her as they all stole down the alley.

Thomas-William nodded at the door ahead.

Sammy moved forward and pulled a bess from the sleeve of his coat. In the blink of an eye, he had the door pried open. She turned to Thomas-William in triumph.
See, I told you.

His brows arched.
This isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

Rusty moved inside, lighting a glym, the sort of small lamp favored by housebreakers and others in the lawless trades. He held it up to reveal a stairway on their right and a long hall on the left.

They all turned to Lucy, for she’d been to the office on numerous occasions—both on errands for her father, then after her father’s death, when Mr. Strout had given her the bad news of her father’s less-than-plump estate, and finally with Archie.

She pointed at the hall. It ran from the alley all the way through the house to the front door, where clients entered. The first room off the front door led into the clerk’s office, and from there they could get into the private domain of Rupert Phinneas Strout, Esq.

Lucy went first, moving as her father had taught her. If she hadn’t known her compatriots were right behind her, she would have thought they’d deserted her, for they moved with the same stealth.

They entered the clerk’s office, where everything sat in tidy piles and at right angles on the desk, not a single paper askew.

Nothing amiss save for the fact that Strout didn’t pay him enough to keep his mouth shut
, she mused. Though she did find some pleasure in the fact that Clifton’s investment in beefsteaks and ale (which he could probably ill afford) were about to be her boon.

She pointed at the formidable set of double doors that led to Strout’s office. Once again Rusty and his bess went to work, opening the door with nary a creak of the hinges.

When they were all inside the large room, Thomas-William closed the door, and Rusty lit another glym, so they could get the lay of the land.

“We must find the safe,” Lucy whispered.

From across the room, the great chair behind the desk whirled around, and an all-too-familiar voice said, “How convenient for you, Goosie. I’ve already gone to the trouble of locating it.”

Luckily for all of them, Thomas-William reacted first.

His hand shot out and covered Lucy’s mouth before she gave them all away.

Her muffled yelp barely registered, but that didn’t have every body in the room stilled and five pairs of ears straining for any evidence that said their presence had been given away.

“Tsk, tsk,” Clifton whispered, rising from the chair. “What was it your father always said? ‘Silence is golden, especially in thieves.’ How unlike you to forget such sage advice.”

She peeled Thomas-William’s broad hand off her mouth and glared at him. “You rotter! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Aye, guv’ner,” Sammy said, reaching inside his pocket and pulling out a pistol. “What game is this?”

“No game,” Clifton told them. “I am after the same thing her ladyship is. The truth.”

For he’d known when he’d given Lucy all the information he had, provoked her by kidnapping her, nearly kissing her, and reminding her of the arrogant man he’d once been—the one she’d despised—that she would do everything in her power to cross him.

And play her last card.

All the while, he would be waiting for her, winning hand at the ready.

“Truth?” Sammy asked. He turned to Lucy. “Said we was after a fortune.”

“We are,” Lucy told them, facing Clifton with the determination he’d always admired about her. No one could have missed the resolute determination in her pledge.