Improper Gentlemen (14 page)

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Authors: Diane Whiteside,Maggie Robinson,Mia Marlowe

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Improper Gentlemen
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Chapter 12
 
M
acTavish had raised a silvery butler-brow but sent the footman to Percy’s house with Lucy’s desperate message. If she was not allowed to go out of the house—as if she were a criminal—well, she thought ruefully, she supposed she
was
a criminal what with the pilfering she’d done, just uncaught—then Percy would have to come to her. Simon had said nothing about her receiving visitors. By the time he got around to forbidding them too, she would be gone.
Percy would help her. He’d have to. And she wouldn’t have MacTavish or anyone else spying on her when she talked to him. She sat now in her little back garden, wrapped in her necessary fox fur against the fall chill. She hoped MacTavish didn’t notice that all the back gardens were connected by doors set into the brick walls. Most of the doors were unlocked, so the courtesans could visit each other when the spirit moved them. More than a bit of gossip was passed or a cup of sugar borrowed—one never knew when one needed a good weep, an extra French letter or bottle of champagne.
But Lucy’s neighbors had locked their garden-wall doors, fearing Lucy’s light fingers. Smart girls. Lucy was sorry for all the thefts, she truly was. If she ever had a way to make it up to her neighbors, she would do so.
She tapped her foot on the brick path. She felt the cold of the marble bench on her bottom even with the barrier of fur. What was keeping Percy anyway? She had been most explicit.
Her impatience was stilled by the site of Lord Ferguson stepping from the dining room French door. It was obvious he’d taken considerable care in his toilette—his shirtpoints were so high they might poke an eye out if he wasn’t careful. He was wrapped in a Ferguson plaid great coat, its predominant color royal purple. Oh dear. The man really was not subtle at all in his preferences.
“Lucy, my love, whatever is the matter? I came as soon as I could. Your note sounded quite dire.”
She grimaced. “Dire indeed, Percy, and it is all your fault.”
Percy swept his many capes behind him and sat down. “Whatever do you mean, love? What has happened?”
“Sir Simon Keith has happened, Percy.”
“Ah, your gallant Scottish knight.”
“Not mine!” Lucy snapped. “I don’t want him. He’s keeping me a prisoner in this house, even worse than you did.”
“Now, buttercup. You were never my prisoner, just my mystery. We ventured out now and again.” Percy reached for her hands, but she jumped off the bench and began to pace on the short brick path between the browning shrubbery. She was not about to succumb to his excuses or his boyish charm.
“Listen to me, Percy. Sir Simon is not who you think he is. He is
my
Simon.”
“I thought you just said he wasn’t yours,” Percy said, frowning.
“He’s not! I mean he is the Simon I knew when I was a girl.”
“The
thief
?” Percy asked, his plucked eyebrows rising to his receding hairline.
“The very same. And worse than ever. You have to help me escape.”
“Where will you go? You know I cannot bring you to Mama’s. She’s met you.”
Lucy shivered. She remembered the occasion well. She’d rather pitch herself down an extremely tall cliff than live with Countess Ferguson. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I want you to go next door to Victorina Castellano’s and ask her to unlock the garden gate for me. I can get out that way.”
Percy rubbed his chin. “The Spanish Spitfire? I thought you were not on good terms with her. Why should she help you?”
“Of course we are not on good terms! I’ve robbed her blind—for you, you ridiculous man—and she suspects me. Tell her I’ve changed my ways. Tell her I’ll pay her back. Eventually.”
“I don’t know, Lucy. I shouldn’t want to jeopardize my investment in Keith’s consortium. He’s bound to find out I assisted you. Can’t you stay and just make the best of things?”
Lucy broke a fallen branch in half, not sure whether it was Simon’s or Percy’s neck she was snapping in her imagination. “Percy, you are a lily-livered coward.”
“I’m a
poor
lily-livered coward. You of all people know that. You stole for me, Lucy, and I shan’t forget that. Ever. It shames me, it truly does. But helping you run off from Jane Street, with no place to go, no money—why, I would be doing you a dreadful disservice. You can’t just fly off into the mist like this. You need a plan.”
“I don’t have time for a plan,” Lucy said crossly, sitting back down. “Will you at least take a note to Victorina?”
“I—I suppose I could. She wears the most marvelous mantillas.”
Lucy rolled her eyes heavenward and was rewarded with a piece of ash falling from a neighbor’s chimney. “Bluidy hell.” She stuck a finger under her lid and rooted around.
“Don’t rub it in!” Percy fished a lace-edged handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Now, Lucy, such language. What of our lady lessons?”
“I doona give a rat’s arse about our lady lessons. Ouch.”
“Hold still, I’ve almost got it. There. Good as new, although your eyeball’s quite pink. You should go inside and rest.”
“Doona change the subject, Percy. I’ll go inside, but only to write to Victorina. Will you take the letter to her?”
Percy nodded. “If you can wait a day or two to leave, I’ll see if I can’t sell something to give you a little going-away gift.”
Lucy squinted at him with her one good eye. “I thought you sold everything of value already.”
Percy colored. “There may be something I overlooked. Yates can help me.”
“All right. But the day after tomorrow is my absolute deadline. I shall simply die if I have to put up with Simon for longer than that.”
“Is he no’ a braw, strapping laddie?” Percy asked, mimicking her accent.
“He’s
too
braw and strapping. You would faint dead away if you saw his ballocks.”
“Lucy! Your language.” Percy looked more titillated than disapproving. Lucy was not about to share what she had done with Simon, however. It was all too mortifying how easily she had fallen under his spell again.
“Let’s go inside to write the note. You can go straight to Victorina’s and then come back to tell me what she says. If it’s no, I’ll ask Sophie Rydell on the other side.”
“I shall try to be as persuasive as possible. I’ll make her my bosom-bow.”
“Just don’t ask if you can see her closet,” Lucy grumbled.
 
Lucy resumed her pacing, this time in her upstairs sitting room. She would miss this space—it had taken her six years to make it cozy and comfortable. She’d sewn the slipcovers and collected the books and arranged every stick of furniture to suit herself. It was her little kingdom—well, queendom might be more appropriate, as Percy had shared many afternoons and evenings here with her while he waited for Yates to finish up his various duties. Lucy had lost count of the number of hats she’d made or the pages she’d cut from romance novels and poetry books in six years of keeping loneliness at bay.
Percy had been good company when he was there, but Lucy had never really warmed up to the other women on the street. Their innate elegance had been intimidating, making her feel even more unlovely and awkward than she had as a girl in Edinburgh. Plus she had been afraid that somehow the true nature of her relationship with her benefactor would be revealed. Lucy certainly could not hold up her end of the conversation when the Janes compared notes and positions. Her dim recollection of adolescent sex with Simon was entirely inadequate.
After the bedroom—and opera—activity of the last few days, she had more of a base of knowledge to discuss from now. But since her thieving, the girls shunned her, and rightfully so. One day she’d make it up to them, even if she had to supply them with a lifetime of new bonnets.
Which reminded her. While she waited for Percy to return, she could work on the straw capote. The hat was intended for him anyway. How and where he’d wear it was no longer of concern to her, but braiding trim for it would keep her busy. If Victorina refused to help her, Lucy would simply send Percy to her other neighbor. Sophie was so high in the instep she could pass as a duchess, though a very naughty one. Sophie might be cooperative—she would be delighted to see the back of her. Lucy had never quite fit in, her Edinburgh edges roughing up the Jane Street silk.
Lucy unrolled some red velvet cording from its spool in her sewing box and snipped it into three lengths. It was soothing to cross the strands over and under, and before she knew it, she had a nice, tight braid. She fixed it to the edge of the brim with tiny, even stitches. The color would bring out the ruddiness of Percy’s cheeks.
She heard the front door slam below—Percy had never been subtle—and waited for him to come upstairs. Instead she heard an altercation below, with MacTavish taking umbrage that Percy had let himself in, as always. Lucy tossed the hat aside and popped her head over the banister.
“It’s all right, MacTavish. Lord Ferguson is used to making himself at home here.”
The butler sniffed. “Most irregular, Miss Dellamar. I shall have to report this to Sir Simon. Your key, please.” He held out a long, work-worn hand.
“My key?” Percy asked, his voice rising.
“Your key, my lord. Miss Dellamar is no longer in your—er, employ. It is one thing to visit at calling hours, ringing the bell and awaiting admittance like a gentleman. Sir Simon would not be best pleased that you have access to this establishment at any hour of the day. Or night,” MacTavish said darkly.
“Are you implying I’m not a gentleman?” Percy was now as red as the braid on his new hat. The color on his cheeks clashed with his purple and green plaid cape.
“I am doing nothing of the kind, my lord,” MacTavish said, unperturbed. His hand remained outstretched. “You are indeed a peer of the realm, the—the flower of English manhood. But it is my understanding that Sir Simon wishes Miss Dellamar to be protected in her home.”
“Protected!” cried Lucy. “Locked up, more like! Percy is my oldest friend, MacTavish, and he may come and go as he wishes. As
I
wish.”
“I’m afraid Sir Simon’s instructions preempt your wishes, Miss Dellamar. The key, Lord Ferguson.”
“Devil take it!” Percy mumbled, but handed it over to the implacable butler.
“Come upstairs, Percy.”
“Miss Dellamar, if I may be so bold—”
“No, you may not, not that I can stop you.” Lucy gritted her teeth in frustration.
“It is improper for you to entertain a gentleman upstairs in your boudoir.”
“I am not
entertaining
Lord Ferguson. We are simply talking. We are friends. We talked in the garden. Now we are going to talk upstairs.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to report that to Sir Simon as well.”
“Report away!” Lucy snapped. “Station yourself outside the door so you can eavesdrop!” That was the last thing she needed, but if necessary she and Percy could write notes to each other. She could read
his
handwriting.
The butler’s neck stiffened. “I never eavesdrop, Miss Dellamar. I know my place.”
“Hmph. Are you coming?” she called down to Percy irritably. This was becoming like a Romeo and Juliet farce with exceptionally star-crossed lovers.
“Yes, Lucy, but I can’t stay long.”
“May I take your cape, Lord Ferguson?”
Percy struggled with the silver clasp. MacTavish clearly intimidated him—he was indeed a lily-livered coward. Lucy turned on her heel and went back into her sitting room. She had half a mind not to give Percy his hat.
He finally entered, blushing.
“Well? What happened? You were gone long enough!”
Percy removed a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Do you suppose MacTavish suspects? That bit about the flower of English manhood was a bit much. And an insult. I’m as Scottish as he is!”
“Bugger the damn butler! Stick to the subject, Percy!”
Percy pulled out his handkerchief and gingerly blotted his brow. He hated arguments of any kind, and the scene with MacTavish had discomposed him. But Lucy was not going to let him off the hook. “Out with it!”
“Your Senorita Castellano is a very vivacious young lady. She insisted I have a drop of wine, and one thing led to another.” He slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket, and Lucy saw a wisp of black lace.
“Oh, God, Percy. What’s that in your pocket?”
Percy covered the bulge in his waistcoat. “I didn’t steal it. She gave it to me.”
Lucy covered her face. The image of Percy prancing around in a black mantilla was disconcerting.
“Don’t worry—I told her it was for Mama. She doesn’t suspect our little arrangement was not what it seemed. Vicky listened quite carefully to your predicament—sympathetic little soul, she is, all liquid dark eyes and mournful mouth. If Mama had not made me give up painting, I should have liked—”

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