Bound by Your Touch (17 page)

He was grinning openly now. "Miss Boyce. Are you calling yourself an odd amusement?"

Heavens above, so she was. She gave a bashful shrug—and then they sat smiling at each other, as though she'd made a very good joke. Her smile widened. So did his. She put a hand to her mouth, as the

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oddest urge to laugh came over her. As if he knew it, he began to laugh himself. And then she suddenly was giggling.
Why, am I flirting?
But what a bizarre scene this was! Sitting side by side on a bench, like a pair of laborers, and speaking as if—oddest thought!—they were friends.

Impossible, of course. Men and women rarely managed such things. But what else to call his relationship with Mrs. Chudderley? Her laughter fading, she looked down to her lap. She had never wished to be anyone other than who she was. But for just a moment, the notion appealed: to wake up in Mrs. Chudderley's body. To be beautiful and admired, and to have the freedom to make as many reckless mistakes as she wished, because he would be there to lean on and to help her out of her blunders.

The wish sobered her. There was something so ignoble in it—as if she discounted all her abilities, and preferred a hero to come and save her, when in fact she could manage perfecdy fine on her own. Besides, a moment of flirting did not make her into the sort of woman who could keep a man's attention on a regular basis. Her temperament was more serious than silly, and anyone drawn to her for longer than a few days would realize she was not as entertaining as he might have hoped. George certainly had.

Clearing her throat, she said, "I could take an armed footman. But servants talk. It's imperative that word of the forgeries not get out."

"Ah yes, God forbid the gossip should tarnish your father." She did not like the sarcasm inflecting those words; she would have protested, had he not pressed on. "Why, what a terrible tangle for you, Miss Boyce. To safeguard your father's name, you are faced with a threat to your own. Two threats, really: one from your escapades, and another from my attentions. You must feel quite desperate."

This answer, given in a tone of amused sympathy, was so far from what she'd expected that she did not know how to reply. Stupid to be hurt by the idea that he enjoyed her troubles. But coming so quick on the heels of their laughter, it was impossible to hide her bewilderment. "Do you dislike me so much, then?"

"Quite the opposite," he said immediately. "I like you immensely. I suspected I would, when you swept down from the lectern like Athena bringing justice. But I didn't realize it fully until you walked into my study to demand the stela. And now you plan to hare off to
St.
Giles—and all this, for the sake of dear Papa's career?"

"It is not simply his
career,
Sanburne. It is his calling."

"And what is your calling, then? Him?"

She bridled. "Of course I should not expect
you
to understand loyalty. You, who treat Lord Moreland with unmitigated contempt!"

"True enough," he said easily. "Sometimes it verges on outright hatred."

"For shame," she muttered. "You are speaking of
your father."

"What of it? Kinship is the work of coincidence, sweetheart. The only thing it truly engenders is proximity. And sometimes not even that, as plenty of the world s bastards will be glad to tell you."

"What a cold sentiment! To whom do you owe loyalty, then, if not the man who fathered you?"

He shrugged. "To those who have earned it. Friends of long standing, etcetera."

"But you do not
earn
faith," she said heatedly. "In the same way you don't earn love. It is freely given, and asks nothing in return. Sanburne, I'm quite shocked by you!

"And I by you," he said with a wink. "If love isn't earned, then by definition, it isn't deserved—which makes it quite dangerous. Why, just consult your
Ae-neid.
Dido could have saved herself a suicide, if she'd only asked first whether Aeneas really merited the heartbreak. Myself, I always thought him a bounder."

She came to her feet. "You are the bounder, I think."

He rose as well. "No doubt," he said. "But at least I'm an honest one. And now, at least, you will know better than to fall in love with me, for certainly I'll never earn it."

She stared at him. "I had no such intention. But really, what an odd statement! If I didn't know you better, I would think you had a very low opinion of yourself."

He arched a flirtatious brow. "Do you know me very well, then? And here I'd hoped there was room to know me better."

Her stomach fluttered. Oh, she was being very foolish, here. "Forget I asked you anything."

"Oh, no. You asked, and I'll gladly agree. Foolishness may not sway me, but I've always had a terrible weakness for romantics. Do we go tomorrow, then?"

She hesitated only briefly. It wasn't as if she needed to approve of him in order to accept his help. "All right then, eleven o'clock tomorrow. We'll meet here." She thought to walk away, then, but she could not help herself.
"Romantic,
Sanburne?" It was the last word she would choose to describe herself. Perhaps once upon a time, but now?

He grinned. He'd been waiting for this, she realized: he knew she would not be able to resist the bait. "It's not an insult, darling. I'm a romantic myself. Why else would I have come looking for you at the library?"

She gave a laugh, to show that she did not take him seriously. But the sound emerged awkwardly, and as she started down the hall, butterflies fluttered through her stomach. Surely he hadn't
really
come looking for her?

How lowering to realize that no woman in St. Giles posed any threat so grave as she did to herself.

Chapter Eight

For
the journey to Seven Dials, Sanburne had hired a clarence, one of those huge vehicles that the wits called "growlers," for the clatter their wheels made over stone. The interior smelled of mold and old sweat. At odd times (particularly when rounding corners), she also caught a sudden note of manure. This last caused her to look with great suspicion at the muddy straw on the floor.

Sanburne found her squirming funny. "Pretend you are in the country, Miss Boyce." But as she pointed out, the countryside was not furnished in indeterminately stained velour. This amused him anew; he launched into an absurd exercise about the proper furnishings and decorations for various natural landscapes. Somehow she got caught up in it, so by the time the carriage stopped it made perfect sense to her that a man-made lake would required chintz and tasseled pillows, but for a small spring (so she proposed, to his fervent agreement) only raw silk and bolsters would do.

The court was too narrow for the carriage, so they entered on foot. On either side of the lane hunched decaying brick buildings, their shattered windowpanes stuffed with rags and newspapers. Disembodied voices floated through the air: a baby wailed; a man yelled for his tea; a woman sang the scales in a surprisingly sweet soprano. The band of grubby children playing knucklebone in the mud seemed unconcerned by their appearance, but when the contents of a chamber pot splattered directly behind Lydia, causing her to spring forward a step, they burst into riotous laughter. "This is appalling," she snapped, when Sanburne joined in with them. "Have you no sympathy for these people?"

"Immense amounts."

"Do not be flip! These conditions—"

"I'm not being flip. Indeed, from time to time, I've been known to call myself a radical."

The statement was so absurd that
she
laughed. "A radical who owns factories?"

"Why, Miss Boyce, you would be surprised. I am"— here his hand lifted, and he began to enumerate on his fingers—"for Home Rule. Friendly to labor unions. Impatient with the shenanigans in Sudan, bored by our impositions on Egypt. I admit, India is a bit of a puzzle to me, and Australia is too far away to care. But I think Russia may have a point when it comes to Kabul, and— well, did I say I simply adore lady suffragists? They look so lovely when their preconceptions are disturbed."

He thought her a suffragist? Perhaps he meant to tease her, but the idea gave her an obscure pleasure. "I would not know. That is—I support suffrage, but I don't spend my days yelling in the park about it."

"Of course you don't," he said. "Too obvious for you. You'll be the lady who writes scathing letters to the editor under a male pseudonym. Am I right?"

She gritted her teeth. It sounded rather cowardly, when he put it thus. "And if I did, it would be out of necessity, wouldn't it? My brother-in-law is political. And not everyone can afford to openly cross their relatives."

"Mores the pity." When she gave him a sharp look, he said, "Where was I? Ah,
yes.
I've a mind to let Canada go, when I'm feeling generous. No opinion on the Transvaal. Oh! This may shock you: on rainy days, I incline toward vegetarianism. Sheep look so unappetizing when their coats are muddied."

His smile, bared in full splendor, revealed a row of strikingly white teeth. The boisterous good health, the telltale privilege inscribed in that smile, gelled poorly with her ideas about men of the people. "Well, if I have misjudged you—that is, I had no idea that you were a man of such principles—"

"Ah—no." As he waved this idea away, the rings on his fingers glittered. She had asked him at the Museum if he should not remove them. In smiling reply, he had pulled back his jacket to show her his gun. He took vanity to the far extreme, if he was willing to shoot to protect it. "I am not a man
of principles,"
he said. "Not in the plural, at any rate. I am a man of one principle, Miss Boyce—or rather, of one position. Luckily, it is very easy to remember. If my father opposes something, I support it heartily. And vice-versa, of course."

It took a moment for her defeat to register. She grimaced. Her fault for taking him seriously, when by now she should have learned better. "What a remarkably simple philosophy. A shame you do not show similar restraint with your jewelry. You sparkle more brighdy than a dowager duchess, Sanburne. It makes my
eyes
sore."

"O!" He clutched his chest. "Coldhearted woman, to disparage me when I take such pains to look pretty for you."

She ignored this nonsense. "I would say that I pity your father, but I will save all my sympathy for you and your juvenile
principle.
Languishing in a prolonged childhood must prove remarkably taxing."

"But what can I do?" he asked. "It's the wonder of primogeniture that keeps me young. Pity us poor heirs, Miss Boyce. All the outdated trappings hang over our heads like an anvil—the properties, the tenants, the staff; the hundreds if not thousands of people who will one day rely on us for a living. But not yet! Oh, no. Until the anvil drops, we are frozen in its shadow— sometimes for decades, if the old sods live that long."

She rolled her eyes. "Some might use the time to implement their fortunes in more useful ways—to help people like these, for instance, instead of buying factories that do nothing but produce a whole lot of smoke and misery."

"And soap," said Sanburne cheerfully. "Don't forget the soap.
Elstoris Cure-all,
only a penny a bar at your local chemist's. Ah, here we are."

The building was five stories, and seemed to be slumping over on itself. As they went up the narrow staircase, the groaning occasioned by their steps did nothing to soothe Lydias nerves. People died every day from building collapses. It was not an end she fancied.

Five floors up, the staircase ended at a small door. As she rapped on it, Sanburne's hand slipped quite casually into his jacket. She hoped he would not shoot the woman before they had a chance to speak with her.

A brisk voice came from within: "Who's there?"

"Miss Boyce," Lydia called.

The door cracked open to reveal a plump, middle-aged lady in a threadbare gray gown. Her
eyes
were shadowed with exhaustion, and the sallow cast to her face contrasted unhealthily with hair dyed carmine. "What's your business?" she asked, sounding puzzled. And then, as her
eyes
ran down Lydia, she stiffened. "If you're from the church, you can go on your way. We've no call for hand-outs here."

"No," Lydia said quickly, "we're not connected. Are you Mrs. Marshall?"

The woman's brows lifted. "Miss Marshall would be my sister. She's not here, so you'll have to find your money elsewhere." The door began to close.

Lydia stepped forward to prevent it from shutting. "Forgive me, madam, we don't want any money. A young man gave me a most mysterious note that claims to be from your sister. It instructed me to come here."

A look of disgust crossed the woman's face. "Of course it did! Thinks me place is some sort of zoo; you're the fourth to come by for a look at her. Well, at least you're a woman. That's some improvement."

Sanburne gave a muffled laugh. Lydia repressed the urge to elbow him. "We don't wish to disturb you, but if you have any idea where she might be—"

"No, and you're a day late anyway. I kicked her out last night; she won't show her face here again." A frown bent the woman's brow. "I didn't want to do it. But she left me no choice, the way she carries on." She lapsed into silence, but seemed to have abandoned the urge to shut them out. Her eyes traveled curiously over Lydia. "Can't imagine what she'd want with you. Sure and certain you're not from the church?"