Three Weeks With Lady X (5 page)

He had the keen sense that most young ladies would—at the very least—look curious at this glimpse into the further reaches of erotic customs. Not Lady Xenobia. Her eyes flared again, though she took a deep breath, clearly making a valiant effort to overcome her temper.

“No.”

“No?” No one contradicted him. Certainly not a woman.

That lush mouth of hers pressed into a flat line and she rose. Hell. That meant he too had to stand. His prick was still trying to burst his breeches, even though he was dueling with a she-devil.

“I am withdrawing my request that you refurbish my house,” he said. “Starberry Court merely needs to be made habitable; it needn’t be transformed into a residence fit for a duke.”

Luckily, she was busy glaring at his face. “You are wrong, Mr. Dautry. If your house is not impeccably furnished and adequately staffed, Lady Rainsford will not agree to this betrothal, no matter how much money you have. What’s more, the house is not your only challenge. It will take you at least a month to acquire a wardrobe that will persuade Laetitia’s mother you are a gentleman.”

Her eyes swept over him, from hair to boots.

Shit.

But she didn’t appear to notice anything untoward—other than his lack of a cravat and coat. “You should think of Starberry Court as a background that will disguise who you really are,” she continued, seeming to discard the idea that he could conceal his true status with a new coat.

A man would probably spend a lifetime teasing her just to get that heated look in response. Thorn gave her a smile that—he had been reliably told—made women weak at the knees, and therefore was practically guaranteed to make her even more furious. “Do tell me, Lady Xenobia: who exactly am I?”

Her eyes glittered. “Are you attempting to
intimidate
me?”

“Absolutely not. I’m merely attempting to clarify your thoughts on the subject. Because since I haven’t managed to sack you—not that I ever officially hired you—I might as well know my new employee’s opinion of me.”

She looked at him with about as much warmth as you might expect from a wild boar. That was the way it was in the peerage: they were all man-eating carnivores, to his mind. Except his father. And Eleanor. And a few others.

“First, Eleanor hired me, not you. And second, you are the bastard son of a duke,” Lady Xenobia said bluntly, showing that she had balls, to put it equally bluntly.

“Do you realize that you are the first lady who has ever said the word ‘bastard’ aloud to me?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “The word has more than one meaning.” It seemed she applied at least two of those meanings to him.

Thorn grinned. “Are all daughters of dukes like you?”

“I’m the daughter of a marquess, not a duke. And precisely what are you implying?”

He saw over her shoulder that Iffley was helping Lady Adelaide with her pelisse. “You are the first person I have employed who refused to be let go.”

“I am extremely fond of your stepmother. I promised her that I would help you, and I shall. Your parents are rightfully concerned about your prospects for a respectable marriage.”

Thorn shrugged. He was fairly sure neither Eleanor nor Villiers gave a damn who he married. “Eleanor instructed me not to inquire about your fee.”

“I never discuss such matters,” she said coolly. “My solicitor will contact yours.”

“You’re a lady, all right,” he muttered. She had probably seen the bulge in his breeches without the faintest idea what it was.

“Do come, my dear,” Lady Adelaide chirped from the doorway. “I have several more calls to make.”

“We shall meet you at Starberry Court the day after tomorrow,” Lady Xenobia said, chin in the air, as if she were Queen Elizabeth addressing Parliament. “First thing in the morning, if you please, Mr. Dautry.”

She leaned a bit closer, lowering her voice. “ ‘First thing in the morning’ in this case will signify nine o’clock, Mr. Dautry. Forgive me for the clarification, but I would guess that your evenings are quite . . . tiring.”

She
had
seen his erection. And that throaty voice of hers only made him stiffer.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “I would suggest that you place yourself in the hands of Monsieur Devoulier.”

“Why that tailor in particular?” Thorn drawled, thinking with some satisfaction of the various coats Devoulier had made for him over the years. He might not choose to dress like a peacock on a daily basis, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t the clothing to do so.

“He excels in making shortfalls less obvious,” she said coolly. And damned if she didn’t glance at his crotch.

How in the hell did she think his cockstand would become less obvious? And did she think that he walked about like this all day? Actually, he might do so—around her. Her folded arms were making her delectable bosom plump up like a present any man would beg to receive.

Iffley escorted the ladies out of the library, which gave Thorn time to admire Lady Xenobia’s bottom before it was concealed by her pelisse. With a sigh, he looked down at his breeches.

As the front door closed, Lady Xenobia’s actual words sank in: she had called his cockstand a “shortfall.” A
shortfall
? An involuntary bark of laughter erupted from his throat.

No woman—lady or otherwise—had ever complained about his tool. Lady Xenobia hadn’t even seen it in the flesh.

That was tantamount to a dare.

And he had never refused a challenge in his life.

Chapter Five

June 18, late morning

40, Hanover Square

London

I
regret to interrupt you, Mr. Dautry, but a child has arrived.” Iffley’s voice had a sour ring, as if he were a classical actor forced to introduce a burlesque. “By special delivery,” the butler added.

Thorn was wrestling with the design for a band of rubber, to be made at his new factory with all possible speed. He wanted it to be large enough and strong enough to secure a trunk on the top of a carriage, though he had no idea whether that was possible.

He scowled at his butler. “It’s a misdirection. Get out.” He had to do something about the band’s elasticity, as well as rubber’s tendency to melt in warm weather.

“She is accompanied by a letter addressed to you,” Iffley replied with a sniff. He was endowed with a long, thin nose that gave him the air of a well-bred greyhound, and his sniff ably conveyed both reproach and disdain.

There was only one reason a strange child would show up, unbidden, at his doorstep. Yet it couldn’t be a child of his. His father’s lamentable example had made him vigilant in that respect. “How old is this child?”

“I would be reluctant to guess at her age; my knowledge of such matters is negligible.”

The man suffered from a
folie de grandeur,
in Thorn’s estimation. Perhaps he would banish him to Starberry Court. “Where is she now?”

“Frederick is in charge of all deliveries,” Iffley said, extending the letter on a silver tray. “Therefore, she is at the service door, awaiting your instructions.”

Thorn’s eyes fell to the scrawled handwriting and his heart squeezed, then beat faster. “Bloody hell,” he said softly. “That bollocking arsehole.” Even touching the envelope gave him a terrible feeling in his gut, like the time he ate a pickled herring with a greenish tinge. He’d been too hungry to be put off by its peculiar taste.

“Bring the child,” he said.

Iffley left and Thorn forced himself to look at the handwriting again. But he didn’t open the letter, as if not reading it would somehow change the information he knew was inside.

Moments later, the door opened and the butler reentered, followed by one of his footmen, Frederick, who carried a little girl of perhaps three or four years. Her hands gripped Fred’s lapel so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her face was hidden behind a tangled cloud of yellowish hair, and her legs looked pitifully thin.

Thorn took a deep breath and came from behind his desk. “Well. What is your name?”

Instead of an answer, a stifled whimper broke from the girl’s mouth. The sound was infused with terror, and Thorn’s chest tightened. He couldn’t bear frightened children.

“Here, open this and read it aloud.” He handed the letter to his butler, then plucked the child from the footman’s arms. “Fred, you may return to the entry. Thank you.”

The little girl looked at him for a second; he had an impression of gray eyes and a thin face before she buried her head in his chest. Her bony little back curved against his arm.

“Hell,” he said, walking over to a sofa and sitting down, only belatedly remembering that one shouldn’t curse in front of children. “What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer; he felt, more than heard, a sob shake her body.

Iffley cleared his throat. “Shall I summon the housekeeper?”

“Just read the letter to me.” Thorn curved his arms around the child so that she sat within a nest, tight against his chest. That had generally soothed his sisters, back in the first days after they’d been rescued by their father and would wake up terrified night after night.

He too had been scared by the huge mansion and the odd, eccentric duke who had appeared out of nowhere, scooped him and five other children off the streets, and declared his paternity. After which His Grace had looked down his big nose and announced that his name was Tobias. It was a name he’d never heard before, and he still didn’t like it.

Once Thorn turned out to be the eldest of the Duke of Villiers’s rescued bastards, he rarely sat down without having a child, if not two, hanging on him, and the sensation of holding a small body on his lap came back immediately. He stroked the child’s back and looked up to find Iffley staring at him, jaw slack. “Read the damned letter, Iffley.”

There was a crack as the wax seal broke, and Iffley cleared his throat. “There has indeed been some mistake, sir,” he said, relief ringing in his voice. “Belying the envelope, the salutation is not addressed to you.”

But Thorn had the same warning feeling that led him to sell stocks when he met a business owner who was just a trifle too jovial, or one whose teeth shone in the candlelight. “It’s addressed to Juby,” he said, resigned.

Juby was his pre-rescue name, the name of a mudlark who had lived in the rough and scavenged in the Thames. Juby was, and was not, Mr. Tobias Dautry, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Villiers. And he was, and was not, Thorn Dautry, an extraordinarily wealthy bastard who owned six factories, a couple of houses, and now a country estate.

Now Thorn looked down with a pulse of sadness at the child huddled in his lap. Presumably, another of his band of boys had died. There had been seven mudlarks slaving under Grindel—a rapacious, brutish master—when Villiers had located Thorn. He had been taken to his father’s country estate, and the duke had dispatched the other boys to good homes. Grindel had gone to prison.

Even so, Fillibert had died that first year of a blood infection. Barty had gotten in a fight, struck his head on a cobblestone, and had never woken again. Rattles was gone the following year. After that, there had been five left, including himself.

There was an enduring bond between them, forged from surviving Grindel’s cruelty, from risking death in the Thames, from coming close to starvation and frostbite more times than he cared to remember. Yet the only boy with whom he’d become true friends was Will Summers. Like Thorn, Will was the illegitimate son of a nobleman, though his father had never acknowledged his baseborn son.

When they were lads, Will had hair like a duckling’s fuzz, an odd yellow that would fluff up in the sunlight after they emerged, shivering, from the Thames, their hands full of scavenged treasures like silver spoons and human teeth—whatever they could find and, more to the point, whatever their master could sell. Will was the stubborn one, persistent to the point of madness, diving into the murkiest water to chase a flash of silver.

Iffley cleared his throat again. “It is indeed addressed to ‘Juby,’ and signed ‘William Summers.’ The handwriting is unclear, and it has apparently been exposed to water. It begins, ‘
If you’re reading this, I’ve lost . . .’
but the latter half of the sentence is indecipherable. Something about the child follows. Her mother is apparently dead, then something about the Americas.” He tipped the letter sideways and squinted. “It seems her mother died during her birth.”

After Thorn, Will was the best educated: he had won a place at King’s, and thereafter had gone into the militia. Which made it only more surprising that his daughter was alarmingly thin and distinctly unclean. She had an odd smell about her, like the inside of a tobacco pouch.

“What is her name?” Thorn asked.

“It notes without reference to a proper name that his wife’s sister lives in Virginia, in America. At least—” He caught himself.

Thorn gave him a grim smile. “The child is orphaned but not illegitimate, for which we must all offer hosannas. I was at the wedding, Iffley. It took place at St. Andrew’s, with a lashing of ceremonial rigmarole. But I was asking for
her
name, not her aunt’s.”

The girl’s thin back hunched, like a bird putting its head under a wing. She was listening, though she chose not to enter the conversation.

The butler squinted at the letter again. “I don’t see a name. From what I see here, you are the guardian and may choose to send the child to America if you wish. There’s a bit in here about a silver teapot. Or the top to a silver teapot, which doesn’t make any sense, followed by the name of his solicitor. I regret to say that the missive is abusive in nature. Summers addresses Juby as a ‘fusty nut.’ I believe he also says that he himself is ‘ignorant as dirt,’ but it could be that Juby is the object of that invective as well. And that’s the entirety of the note.”

Thorn nodded. “Send a message to my solicitor asking him to find out what happened to Will Summers, member of the militia located in Meryton. And ask Mrs. Stella to attend me.” He tightened his arms around Will’s daughter and said gently, into her ear, “Will you please tell me your name?”

The child burst into tears. Thorn sighed and stood up, scooping her into his arms. He hitched her a bit higher and followed Iffley into the entry. Frederick stood against the wall. “I gather you accepted this special delivery, Fred?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was a trunk delivered at the same time?”

“No, sir. And the driver took off so quickly that I scarcely had a look at him.”

Mrs. Stella burst through the servants’ door, ribbons streaming from her cap. His housekeeper had gravity about her, a quality of being bound to the earth by more than the weight of her sturdy form. “Well, who’s this?” she asked. “Could it be I see a wee one in need of a bath?”

There was one more sob, and the girl’s head shook in violent refusal.

“How about a bowl of porridge?”

Another shake.

“I’ve always found that cake is very cheering,” Thorn remarked.

Mrs. Stella sighed in an exaggerated way. “Well, if you say so, sir. Cake it shall be.” And she held out her arms.

No movement.

“
Cake,
” Thorn repeated. “Mrs. Stella is a very nice woman, and the cake can only be found in her part of the house.”

It took a moment, but the girl raised her head. “I can walk.”

“You may have cake only if you tell me your name.”

“My papa named me Rose,” she said, her voice wavering for a moment.

Thorn put her down and she went to Mrs. Stella, stopping to look up at her. “I don’t, in the general course of things, like to be carried,” she said, her voice piping but quite clear.

Mrs. Stella smiled and said, “You will have no argument from me. I shouldn’t like to be carried myself.” They set off through the servants’ door, Thorn frowning after them. Will’s daughter had a most peculiar manner. As if she were ninety years old and a dowager duchess to boot.

He’d be damned if he’d ship Rose off to America. His father had misplaced all his illegitimate children after consigning them to the care of an unscrupulous solicitor. No, if the aunt wanted Rose, she would have to come to England and fetch her.

But what the devil was he to do with the girl until her aunt arrived, even supposing they could find the woman? Rose couldn’t live in his house, no matter how birdlike and—

No.

Thorn went back to his desk and sat down before the design for his rubber band. Even as he worked, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about Rose. At length he realized that the easiest solution was to give her to his stepmother, Eleanor. It would hardly matter if the
ton
believed that the Duke of Villiers had spawned yet another bastard.

In fact, he could ask her directly; he had just time enough to stop by his father’s town house before meeting Vander for supper. He’d gone straight to his study from a vigorous ride and he smelled like the stables, so he went upstairs to his bedchamber and rang for his valet.

An hour later, he was bathed and had shrugged on a coat as elegant as any the Duke of Villiers had worn. The choice had nothing to do with the way Lady Xenobia’s lip had curled when she’d looked him over.

The mere thought of her brought on another irrational flare of desire. Damn it, the woman was the daughter of a marquess. When he’d reached manhood, his father had told him not to look at women in the highest ranks. A cat couldn’t look at a king, after all, nor a bastard at a marquess’s daughter.

Not that he’d been
looking
at Xenobia.

Though she had looked at him.