Earls Just Want to Have Fun (12 page)

“You must decide whether you will stay or go. Brook is occupied with another investigation, and the Lyndons may not be back in Town for weeks. I can't keep you here against your will any longer.”

“Then let me go,” she said immediately, but for the first time she was not certain she meant it.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Was it?

“Then you are free to go.” He sat back and spread his arms over the back of the couch. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Just like that? I can go?”

“You may go. I won't stop you.”

“Ha!” She jumped up, snatched several tea cakes, and started for the drawing-room doors. When she reached them, she pushed them open, then peered back at him. He was still sitting on the couch. He wasn't even looking at her. She really could simply walk through the door. She scampered down the steps, into the vestibule, and saw the butler. “He”—she notched her head up to indicate the drawing room—“says I can go.”

“Very well. Good day to you.” The butler opened the door, and Marlowe looked over her shoulder.

Dane wasn't coming for her. He was really setting her free. She stepped outside, into the sunshine and the brisk spring air, and stood on the stoop, staring down at the boot scraper. She knew which way the flash ken lay. She'd never had any trouble finding her bearings in the city. If she walked quickly, she could reach it in less than an hour. Wouldn't Gideon be surprised when he saw her dressed so finely? Satin's eyes would nigh pop out of his head.

Of course, she would have to give some sort of explanation, and she'd have to think of a way to talk Satin out of robbing Dane's house. He would want her to go back, to make a pretense of visiting, so she could pocket a few valuable items. Satin would be full of plans, and Marlowe would have to go along with them. She might protest, but after a few beatings and days of starvation, she'd agree. She knew she would. And why not? She'd never cared about the swells before. They had far more than they deserved. They wouldn't miss a few glim-sticks or feeders.

But the fact was, Marlowe did not want to steal from Dane—or from anyone. For the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have her own house, her own candlesticks, her own forks. What if she had a home instead of a space on the floor of a dirty flash ken? What if she had a family who loved her instead of a bunch of cubs always looking to double-cross her for their own gain?

She had Gideon. That much was true. He was like family, but though Gideon protected her from the worst of Satin's tirades, he couldn't save her completely. Not without getting himself killed.

Marlowe sat down on the step and nibbled one of the tea cakes. It tasted almost stale to her now. Dane had said she needed to make a decision. If she returned, she was back under Satin's control. She was back to being a thief, back to starving, back to running from the Charleys and the Watch and dodging Satin's fists.

If she stayed…

What was wrong with her? How could she even
think
of staying?

Because if she stayed, she had a soft bed, clean clothes, a full belly, and a chance. What if she was Lady Elizabeth? What if Lord and Lady Lyndon were her parents? What if Satin had stolen her away from the life she should have had, the parents who loved her?

Loved
her.

No one had ever loved her, but these Lyndons loved their daughter. They'd gone on searching for her all these years. They must have loved her very much.

Marlowe clenched her hands together and closed her eyes. She had spent years pushing the memories down, years fearing the vulnerability they brought with them, but now she opened herself to them. The sounds of the carriage wheels on the streets, the hawkers' distant cries, the church bells tolling the hour faded away. She remembered…warmth. The memory must have come from some time before Satin, because she had never felt warm when she'd lived with him.

She remembered…softness. Again, where had a memory of softness come from, if not a time before Satin? She shut her eyes more tightly and remembered rocking, a soft bosom, the scent of…some sort of flower. She didn't know the name. An image of a man in a coat and the sort of neckcloth Dane called a cravat came to her mind. He was going out, and he gathered her in his strong embrace and kissed her, the hair on his chin scratching her.

She turned, and there was a woman—

Marlowe opened her eyes. No, she could not remember her, could not see her now. Tears were already threatening to spill over.
Mama.
Marlowe clenched her hands until her blunt fingernails dug painfully into her flesh. There was no crying. No sniveling. She must be strong—except, what if she did not have to be strong anymore? What if, for once in her life, she did not have to take care of herself?

She turned and looked at the town house behind her. This was not her world, but perhaps it could be. The other cubs would have killed for a chance to live in a place like this. Should she abandon her one chance before she even had all the facts? If she was Lady Elizabeth, her whole life would change. If she wasn't, well, then, no harm done. She'd go back to Satin, and everything would be like it had been before.

Except, as she rose, she knew if she walked back into that house, nothing would ever be like it had been before.

***

Dane closed his eyes and laid his head on the back of the settee. She was gone. She'd actually walked away. It had surprised him. He'd thought a thief like her would see the value in staying, would see the opportunity it provided. Either she was not a very good thief, or she actually had morals. Scruples. Terrifying thought, that. He'd have to start thinking of her—of all her ilk—differently.

The house was suddenly eerily quiet. It must have been quiet before she'd come, but he'd never noticed how silent it was before. He should take advantage of the quiet and return to his library to work. But he knew he'd find the volume of Shakespeare on his desk, and he'd think of her.

Perhaps she'd taken it with her, although since she couldn't eat it, she'd probably left it. And what did he care if she'd left a book on his desk? What did he care if he'd think of her when he looked at the chair in his room or climbed into bed? She was gone. He was done with her, and good riddance.

The drawing-room doors opened, and Crawford stepped inside. “Is she gone?” Dane asked, letting his head fall back again.

“Yes, my lord.”

He sighed. “Well, it was a diverting few hours, wasn't it, Crawford? I suppose it's back to the ledgers and the balls and the bickering in Parliament.” And it was back to the simpering misses, the daughters of barons and viscounts, hoping to improve their stations by marrying an earl like him. Back to conversations about hats and horses and the weather. “Do you know, Crawford,” Dane said, “she and I never once discussed the weather.”

“That is too bad, my lord.”

“Is it? I detest discussions about the weather. Marlowe was…interesting.”

“To say the very least, my lord.”

“And she was”—he'd thought about saying
beautiful
, but that might shock Crawford—“really quite pretty in Lady Susanna's gown. I could almost imagine she really was Lady Elizabeth.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“But she's gone now,” Dane said.

“For the most part, my lord.”

Dane sat forward. “What do you mean?”

“She is sitting on the front step, my lord.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing that I can ascertain, my lord. Just sitting.”

“Why?”

“I do not know, my lord. I came to inquire as to whether you want me to ask her why she is still sitting there? Or should we send a footman to shoo her away?”

“Like a stray dog?”

“Exactly, my lord.”

Could he fault Crawford for seeing her as such when he was no different? “I'll speak to her.”

“You, my lord?”

Dane rose now, feeling unaccountably invigorated. “Perhaps she forgot something.”

“Forgot, my lord?” Crawford followed Dane out of the drawing room. “We burned her clothing, your lordship.”

“There was a book of Shakespeare,” he said, jogging down the stairs and arrowing toward his library, moving quickly now, worried he might miss his chance.

“My lord, I assure you that girl cannot read.”

“A gift is a gift, Crawford,” Dane said entering the library and sweeping the book from his desk and into his arms.

“As you say, your lordship.” Crawford had resumed his position at the front door, and he opened it now. Marlowe turned, looking rather surprised to see him. It was just as Crawford had said. She was seated on the stoop, the midmorning sun glinting on her light brown hair and making some of the strands shine like gold. She pushed up, and Dane waved the book in his hand.

“You forgot something.”

Her brow furrowed, and then she gave a short laugh. “That book is your sister's.”

“I believe she made a gift of it to you.” He took her hand and pressed the volume into it.

Marlowe looked down. “I can't read it, and Satin will just sell it.” She held it out to him. “You keep it.”

Dane didn't reach for the book. “Why are you still here, Marlowe?”

She shook her head, looked over her shoulder at the street. Dane imagined they were making quite a scene for the neighbors passing by. The Earl of Dane standing on his stoop, talking with a beautiful young woman. Oh, the rumors would fly. The gossips would have him married by the end of the day.

But he didn't care. He held out his arm. “Fancy a walk?”

Her brows rose. “A walk? To where?”

“Just a walk.”

“Why?”

He laughed. “Because the sun is out and the day is mild and we might as well enjoy it.”

“So you walk as a diversion?”

“I am no great walker, but many do, yes. Come along. You might enjoy it.” He offered his arm, and she merely blinked at it. With a sigh, Dane took her hand and placed it on the crook of his elbow. Keeping his hand on hers, he led her from the stoop. Neither of them were wearing gloves. She didn't own a pair, and he hadn't anticipated walking, and had left his inside. He might have paused to retrieve them, but by then, Marlowe could have been halfway back to St. Giles. So it was that his flesh grazed hers rather intimately.

Her hand was small, which he supposed was an advantage for a pickpocket, and rough. He had not held many ladies' hands, but the few he'd held were usually plump and soft. Marlowe's hand was long, thin, and scarred with scratches, calluses, and even a burn mark. Her nails were blunt but clean—thanks to her bath—and despite the abuse her hands had obviously endured, they were rather elegant. It was her long fingers, which would have been perfect for playing the pianoforte or drawing—two lady's accomplishments she had probably never even considered, much less attempted.

Dane had the ungentlemanly urge to glide his hand from hers up to her dainty wrist and then to her pale forearm. He wondered if the skin was softer there. He remembered soft skin from last night when she'd been in his bed. Better not to think of that at the moment. It wouldn't be repeated, and if she was Lady Elizabeth, it had better never be mentioned.

He'd turned her unconsciously toward the park at Berkeley Square, and as they neared the green area, he realized this path had probably been a mistake. He would undoubtedly meet with acquaintances, and how was he to introduce Marlowe? But he had chosen his path now, and perhaps it was too early for many of the
ton
to be out and about except on social calls.

“What do you”—she began and then paused—“what does one do on a walk?”

He smiled. She was trying to mimic her betters, and he found that strangely endearing. She already had a good grasp on the accent, almost as though she'd been born speaking well and had merely laid the ability aside. Or perhaps she had cultivated the accent in order to further some scheme or other. How could he know?

“One enjoys the fresh air.”

She looked up at him, her expression incredulous. “The smell of horse s—manure and coal fires?”

He grinned. “Very well, fresh air might be enjoyed only in the country. One day I will take you to walk or ride in Hyde Park. There are paths on which one forgets he is even in a city.” Why was he saying this? Acting as though their acquaintance would continue?

“I've been to Hyde Park.”

“Yes, but this time you would leave without having filled your pockets with others' valuables.”

She shrugged, not appearing reprimanded in the least. “What else does one do on a walk?”

He thought for a moment, surprised he was still having to resist the urge to slide his hand up her arm. “Oh, one usually discusses the weather.”

She looked at the sky. “Why? You can see it as well as I can.”

“That's not the point. Here, I'll begin. What do you think of this sunny weather we're having?”

She cut her gaze to him. Her expression was one of extreme patience. She quite obviously thought he was daft. “It's…sunny.”

“Yes, a welcome change, as it's been so dreary the last few days.” Even he was impressed by that statement. He had never waxed so eloquent on the weather.

“What do you care if it's dreary? You don't have to be out in it.” Her statement was so unexpected, Dane burst out laughing. It was probably quite true from her view. He had never considered that the lower classes might think of the weather quite differently than he and his ilk. To him, it was a banal topic. To them, extensive rain or cold might be more than just an inconvenience. What did people who could not afford coal do in winter?

They'd paused on the edge of the grass at Berkeley Square, where several governesses and nannies were out and about with their young charges. Dane released Marlowe's arm and turned to her. “I like you, Marlowe.” And he did. Anyone who disdained talk of the weather could not be all bad.