The Art of Ruining a Rake (15 page)

An odd look flickered across his face. “This is not charity, Lucy. Your income is derived from annual interest. You must be mindful of your expenditures.”

She chafed at the warning. “I kept your household books, and my own school’s expenses. I know as much as anyone about managing funds.”

He ignored her defense. Stuck, as he used to be, on his own opinion. “It can be intoxicating, living independently for the first time. Even I hardly knew how to get on when I first inherited the title. Let me be clear: You’ve made your decision not to marry Montborne. That is all well and good and I hope you have many happy years alone. But I won’t run through my wife’s money so you may frolic in London.”

Lucy drew up in affront. This was more like the brother she remembered. “You’re being quite clear. Allow me to reciprocate. Tomorrow, I intend to withdraw my disbursement salary from the account where it has been settled. Then I shall embark upon a career as an authoress. You needn’t worry about supporting me indefinitely. I mean to become wildly famous and earn my keep by my pen.”

He narrowed his eyes. “If that is the case, then I shall have to accompany you to the bank.”

BEFORE LUCY COULD withdraw her funds, she had to receive approval from Mr. Cartwright. It was a brisk walk to Henrietta Street, where Celeste’s former solicitor had his office.

If Trestin didn’t like her conducting business with a man who advised the estates of prominent courtesans, Lucy would thank him to keep it to himself. Only Mr. Cartwright had the authority to issue a cheque for her disbursement salary, and she was more than eager to see him.

She left Trestin to trail behind her, and tasted the liberty of doing exactly as she pleased. That hat in the window that caught her attention? She whisked into the milliner’s shop and tried it on. At the corner of the next block she inhaled the heavenly scents of a confectionery. Why yes, she
did
crave a hot scone topped by a dab of Devonshire cream. And that bookstore there, wasn’t that a new volume of poetry in the window?

Never mind she couldn’t afford it, it was just so lovely to look.
 

By the time she and Trestin reached the Office of Thomas Cartwright, Solicitor, she was feeling fairly invincible. Until the solicitor slid a square of paper across the table and said, “Lady Trestin did indeed insert a line in the ledger affording you fifteen pounds per year worked. You were headmistress for seven months. Therefore, you earned out eight pounds, fifteen shillings. A pleasing sum for a young lady looking for pin money.” He beamed at her.

Lucy frowned at the insulting figure. Eight pounds! Eight pounds was a trifling sum for the day-to-day accountability of thirty heads, and the management of the school itself.

The regular
tap tap tap
of Trestin’s hand on his knee sounded very much like
I told you so
.

Heat crept along her collar. Oh, he
would
witness this. How mortifying.

Calmly, she asked, “How much can one expect to outlay to keep a London house? The daily expenditures, I mean. Food, heat, and so on.” She eyed the offending figure on the sheet. As if, by using her mind, she could add a few
0
s just after the
8
.

“An entire household? Why, that’s
a substantial expense, Miss Lancester. Three to five shillings per week at best. Not accounting for a lady’s needs like millinery, modiste bills, dinner parties and the like. Not accounting for much of anything, really.”

Three to five shillings per week sounded acceptable, despite his insistence to the contrary. She made the calculation in her head and instantly felt sickened. Three shillings a week became seven pounds, sixteen shillings over the course of a year. If she ate nothing but gruel and spared every expense, she could barely afford to keep a house in Town for the next twelve months, let alone manage the mortgage.

Trestin cleared his throat.

She shot him a murderous look.

Mr. Cartwright leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his paunch. “Eight pounds is very little to live on, Miss Lancester. Have you considered sharing room and board with another woman? Perhaps another lady like yourself?”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. Live with someone like Miss Conley? “I’m
sure
my situation isn’t so dire!”

Mr. Cartwright glanced at Trestin. “I’m sure you’re right, miss.”

She reached across the desk for the pen, then pulled the sheet of paper closer. It was simply a matter of good planning and a commitment to execution. She could do this. She must. Suffering her brother’s nagging indefinitely was untenable.

Trestin leaned forward to better see what she was writing. “You won’t forget the baker. Twice a week for half a loaf. Even a scrawny lass like you must eat.”

“That is why I included a dozen scones,” she grumbled without looking up.

Trestin chuckled. She’d cuff his shoulder, but she was too absorbed in her list writing.

One day, she’d prove herself right.

He was wrong.

Chapter 7

AN HOUR LATER, she had a fair idea how much time she could afford in London without reducing herself to the life of a pauper—or throwing herself on Trestin’s mercy. Approximately three months. Not even close to the amount of time required to write a novel, correct it, and sell it to a publisher.

They were standing just beyond the entrance of Thomas Coutts & Co. Bank when the creak of the door opening behind her was followed by a man’s voice booming, “You’re a lucky charm, Kennydale. My own hare’s foot! I should put you in my pocket.”

She knew that voice. Dreaded it. Dreamed about it.

“Ho there, Montborne,” another man answered, “it’s you who came to
my
rescue!”

“And so I did!” Roman’s resounding laugh came from mere steps behind her. “But on with you now. I’ve all I need for today, what.”

Footsteps approached them. Trestin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Before Lucy could wonder at it, he shoved the small purse containing her money inside his greatcoat, then spun about on his heel.

She turned much more slowly.

Roman held his walking stick against his chest as he bowed to her. “It seems we were destined to cross paths after all, Miss Lancester. I do so love to be right.”

The corkscrew curls crushed by his beaver hat begged to be wrapped around her fingers. Those sapphire eyes bored into hers, as if he could see each scene from her terrible day just by studying her face. She forced her nails into her palms and took a step back. He was too warm and too close, even at this polite distance.

“Ahem,” Trestin said, drawing Lucy by her elbow so they all moved to the side of the walk. “At least you might have the decency not to flirt with my sister right in front of my face.”

“Trestin!” Lucy said, horrified.

Roman laughed and turned to her. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you home? Or to wherever it is you’re headed; I’m sure it’s in my direction.”

She edged closer to Trestin. Walking with Roman would be a mistake. She ought never to be alone with him when she was so easily persuaded by those blue, blue eyes.

“Ah, Miss Lancester,” Roman said again, so softly his voice could barely be heard over the clacking of carriage wheels in the street. “You can wish me to the Underworld all you like, but Hades won’t have me. One of the many benefits of being considered more trouble than I’m worth.”

She gripped her hands together and averted her gaze before she did something completely imprudent like sigh with longing. He
would
know of her fascination with mythology. “If you think Hades himself won’t have you, what makes you think
I
will?”

“Good God,” Trestin muttered. “Just go with him.”

As much as she liked the idea of putting Trestin off his lunch, she didn’t trust herself to walk alone with Roman. “Where will you be?” she asked her brother.

“Am I to believe,” he asked incredulously, “you’re suddenly concerned for my welfare? After you raced ahead of me to the bank?”

She frowned at him. “Of course I care, and I’ll thank you not to make it sound as though I’m dodging Lord Montborne’s offer.”

“But you are,” Roman said. “It’s quite obvious.”

It took every ounce of her composure to keep from issuing a sound of annoyance. Naturally,
he’d
see no reason to politely accept her desire to avoid his company. “If I maintain a wide berth, it is only because
you
ruined
me,” she said.

He didn’t bat a lash, but she could have sworn his eyes laughed. “We could pass a quarter hour in perfectly pleasant conversation, if you wouldn’t bring that up.”

“Yes,” Trestin said, “please don’t.”

An appalling little chuckle burst through her imperiousness. “There’s no sense pretending it didn’t happen.”

“There’s every reason,” her brother corrected, “if you wish to maintain what little remains of your character.”

Oh!
She drew up straighter as his warning chafed. Why must she avoid certain topics, or certain people, simply because a society that had ostracized her might think her impudent?

Trestin must have seen her bristle. “If you don’t want to walk with Lord Montborne, it’s only good sense—”

“I’ll
thank
you not to be so generous with your advice!” She jerked away from him. “As a woman of independent means, I may walk with whomever I like.” So saying, she went to Roman and took the arm he held out for her.

Roman grinned at her, peeving her further, then touched the brim of his hat in farewell to her brother. “A good friend as always, Ashlin. I’ll have her home in time for dinner.”

“You’ll set tongues wagging,” Trestin warned. Then his eyes caught Roman’s and he looked away quickly. A muscle tightened at his jaw, but not quite in a grimace.

Almost like a smile.
 

LUCY RAISED HER chin and brushed past her brother, drawing Roman along with a firm grip. Was Trestin hoping she’d learn the hard way, and give him another reason to say
I told you so
? If so, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

Roman clapped Trestin on the shoulder as he passed. “Thank you.”

“Don’t give me a reason to regret it,” Trestin murmured. “On second thought, I’ll keep ten steps behind you.”

Lucy shot him one last vehement look, then promptly resolved to forget him.

“There now,” Roman said in a tone as unhurried as if he had all the time in the world to speak to her. “What have you been doing since I saw you last?”