No Place for a Lady (21 page)

She barely even noticed when he opened her shirt. Then she was the one who stripped it away, revealing the tight swath of fabric that restricted her breathing. Breaking from her lips, Marcus tugged at the edge of her binding, tucked in the flattened valley between her breasts. Then he unwound her slowly, kissing her shoulders, her collarbone, and even lower, as inch by inch her body was revealed to him.

"Marcus..." she began, but he silenced her with a kiss. Abandoning the binding, he pressed her backward into the bed, and she sank willingly into the thin mattress. The cloth was loose enough that he could torment her with every movement, as he pulled and pushed it across her breasts.

She had meant to say something. Something about timing and location and how she had just said she would not be his mistress, but she lost those words now. She was beyond caring for her problems or his plans, beyond thought other than the need to feel his hands on her breasts, his lips across their peaks, his body between her thighs.

She wanted him. And from the ardor in his touch, his need was equally strong.

"Fine bit o' attention from a guardian, I'd say."

Fantine froze, forcibly expanding her attention beyond herself and the man on her bed. Shifting her gaze, she saw Sprat leaning against the wall, an adolescent leer on his face.

Above her, Marcus cursed audibly, rolling off of her in a single lithe movement, landing easily in a defensive posture. Fantine would have done the same if it had not been for the loosened bindings. As it was, she scrambled to her feet, the cloth gripped in one hand.

"What do you want, Sprat?" she asked, as she quickly rewound the fabric.

"Merely wot you promised. When do I go t' Arrow?"

Fantine sighed. "Be reasonable, Sprat. You cannot go in the middle of the term. You must wait for the next session."

It was only when she finished speaking, after she had pulled on her shirt, that she chanced to look closely at Sprat. The boy's face was discolored from repeated beatings. Though many marks had faded, one eye was still slightly swollen, the skin livid and purple.

"Has Ballast been beating you?"

She saw his jaw clench, his chin lifting slightly in pride. "Wot me father does ain't yer business."

She opened her mouth to argue, but Marcus forestalled her. "No, but how you do at Harrow is my business."

Fantine shifted her attention to Marcus, noting that he was standing straighter, no longer on the defensive. His arms were folded across his massive chest, and he looked as stern as any taskmaster in the rookeries.

"If I am to sponsor you to Harrow," Marcus continued, "you will have to leave immediately for Yorkshire."

"York!" exclaimed Fantine. "But that is—"

"All the way across England," finished Marcus. "So far, in fact, that it would be quite a problem for Ballast to follow or Sprat to run away." He pinned the boy with his heavy gaze. "If you mean to go to Harrow, you must do it completely. There is a good deal for you to learn before you even enter those hallowed doors. I have a tutor and a housekeeper there who can teach you all you need to know. Neither will take any nonsense."

Sprat's eyes narrowed, but he never said a word.

"If and only if they give a good account of you by summer's end, I shall sponsor you to Harrow."

Fantine clenched her jaw shut. She wanted to interfere, but knew better. There was a great deal for the boy to learn, and this was the only way. And to Sprat's credit, he seemed to understand that as well. His expression was guarded, but his eyes were steady as he considered Marcus's words.

Finally he straightened in a clear challenge. "Your word as a gentleman? You will sponsor me?"

"Provided Mrs. Grindley and Mr. Harwood agree." At the flicker in the boy's expression, Marcus continued. "They are fair people. They will not sabotage you."

Sprat stuck out his hand. "Your word as a gentleman."

Marcus stepped forward, taking it with equal gravity. "My word as a gentlemen to a future gentleman. I will sponsor you."

Fantine exhaled in relief, knowing that one of her problems had been solved. Sprat would get his chance at Harrow.

"But we must leave now," continued Marcus. Glancing toward Fantine, he lowered his voice. "If Sprat has found you, then his father cannot be far behind."

"He's on 'is way now," put in Sprat. "That's why I came. He found out that you live 'ere as Fanny the barmaid, and he means to come get even fer the bruise on 'is face and fer Jenny."

Fantine closed her eyes on a groan. Would Ballast never forget about Jenny?

"We must go," Marcus said, and Fantine agreed. Without so much as a backward glance, she left her home and everything she owned. They were Fanny's and Rat's, not hers. And so she abandoned them as she hoped to abandon both those personas. When that thought had entered her head, she hadn't a clue. But it was there now, and for the first time in her life, she embraced it wholeheartedly. Perhaps she could leave the rookeries behind. Perhaps she could try to become more than she was now.

Perhaps her father and Marcus were right.

She was so caught up in those thoughts that she did not think about Sprat's words until after they had climbed into Marcus's carriage.

Turning to Sprat, she frowned. "How did you know that Chadwick posed as my guardian? That was told to Hurdy, not Ballast."

Sprat shrugged as he stroked the rich velvet squabs. "I know wot the boys know, an' the boys know about Hurdy an' Ballast both."

Fantine nodded. That was, in fact, why her guise as Rat was so useful. "But if Hurdy and Ballast know the daft peer and my guardian are both Chadwick..."

"An' they know Rat and Fanny are the same," added Sprat.

"Then," cut in Marcus, "I got you away just in time."

"But to where?" Fantine asked. "They know who you are."

Marcus shrugged. "It takes timing and nerve to attack a peer. Besides, Hurdy will do nothing as yet, and Ballast will not move against either of us as long as Sprat is with me. Or rather in Yorkshire getting his education. Remember, I am his only hope of a sponsorship to Harrow."

Fantine looked straight at Sprat. "Will that be enough to keep your father away?"

The boy did not respond at first, but then he shook his head. "He will no' touch Chadwick. 'E figures the deal's with the nob."

"But what about Fantine?" asked Marcus.

Sprat turned to her, his expression almost apologetic. "Rat has tweaked 'im awful bad. 'E can't let that go an' still keep 'is men."

Fantine squeezed Marcus's hand, taking strength from his heat even as she tried to reassure him. "I can duck Ballast. Besides," she added with a smile, "Sprat will write his father from Yorkshire saying how happy and wonderful things are, and Ballast may forgive me some."

Sprat looked doubtful, but he did not say anything until Marcus looked at him sternly. "You will write your father?"

"O' course. But I will write the truth, guv. If'n I ain't being treated right, then I'll tell. And 'e'll go fer Fantine an' you both."

Marcus folded his arms across his chest, his expression hard. "
He
," Marcus corrected, emphasizing the "h" sound. "And if you intend to write the truth, then I shall make sure you understand it."

Sprat stiffened. "I understands that...."

Fantine groaned, tuning out the boy's words. With Marcus and Sprat sparing, the threat of Ballast coming to kill her, the difficulty of negotiating with Hurdy, not to mention her debts, Wilberforce's looming murder, and, God help her, the fear of meeting Marcus's family, she felt completely exhausted. "Gawd, when did me life get so bloody complicated?"

Then for the second time that day, she was surprised by the sight of Marcus's grin.

* * *

Ballast slammed his hand into the wall of Fanny's tiny room and cursed until he wore out his breath. She was gone. He had missed the wench by less than five minutes.

He drew breath, intent on venting his spleen some more, but stopped when his gaze snagged on the cap. It was tucked away behind the door, but the item was unmistakable.

Sprat's cap. His boy was with Fanny/Rat.

Ballast picked up the ragged thing and smoothed it over his fist. Everything was all right then, he told himself. His son was smart. Sprat would know just how to handle one stupid woman and her daft lord. He would set things up so that Ballast could make mincemeat out of both the girl and her lord.

Jerking his head at his men, Ballast motioned them out of Rat's tiny room. He would give Sprat a few days to explain what was going on.

The whore just better not hurt his boy. If anything happened to Sprat, he would tear her from limb to limb.

* * *

Marcus shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to fidget. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for the delicacy of this moment. After all, how
did
one introduce a friend's secret bastard to one's sister?

In the end, he need not have worried. His sister was the consummate hostess. She did not care that he arrived on her doorstep with a filthy boy and an equally dirty woman dressed as a boy. Charlotte took one look, ordered a huge tray of food and baths. It was not until Sprat and Fantine were immersed in hot water that she cornered her brother and demanded an explanation.

"All right, brother dear, who are they, why were they dressed like that, and why am I bringing her out?"

He did not even blink an eye. "Because I am your brother and you love me."

"Hah!"

"Because you already promised."

"I promised to bring out Penworthy's niece, not a bedraggled woman in torn breeches."

"They are one and the same."

"But why? What does all this mean?"

He did not answer. She folded her arms and frowned at him. And they remained that way for a very long time.

In the end, he won. He always did with Charlotte because, deep down, she adored him almost as much as she once adored their brother Geoffrey.

"Very well," she finally huffed. "I shall make my peace with her. As for you," she said as she dropped her hands on her hips, "you can open your purse to all sorts of expenses. If I hear a single objection, I shall tell everyone you used to chase goats in your underwear!"

Marcus stiffened in horror. "I was five years old!"

"Does not matter in the least. I shall tell everyone. Perhaps I shall even commission a painting of it. Are we in agreement?"

Marcus pressed his lips together and tried to stare her down. This time he lost. "Very well," he said. "You have carte blanche, but do try not to beggar me. I am to inherit the title one day. It would be nice if I could support it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Then you are to pay, not Penworthy?"

He sighed. They both knew his mentor did not have the funds to support a Season. And now Charlotte knew that her brother had more than a casual interest in her new charge.

"If you will excuse me, I need to compose a letter to go with Sprat to Yorkshire." And so he slipped away before Charlotte's quick mind figured anything else out.

* * *

Fantine sighed deeply. Once again, she was clean and well fed thanks to Marcus. Was she thankful? Yes. Was she nervous and wary? Very much so. Did she wish he was here kissing her so that she could not remember to be nervous or wary or even disoriented? Absolutely. But he was not here.

Hence the sigh.

She closed her eyes, trying to capture a sense of blissful contentment without worrying, but she couldn't. There were too many unknowns in this place, too many things that could go wrong. She did not like the feeling, and so she could not sit peacefully in a bathtub no matter how delightful the perfumed fragrance.

She stood up, then hastily grabbed a towel just as a knock sounded. A moment later, a maid's shadow appeared on the other side of the screen. "Milady wishes to speak with you and wonders if she could interrupt your bath," she said.

"Uh, yes," Fantine responded, carefully schooling her voice to keep out all traces of Cockney. "Tell Lady Charlotte she may come in." She spoke quickly, too quickly.

This is ridiculous! she scolded herself. There was no reason to be nervous. She had faced a good deal worse than Marcus's relations. But despite the chiding she gave herself, she was still nervous and anxious, and completely ill prepared for the woman who peeked around the screen.

"Do you need any help, Fantine?"

Fantine shook her head, cursing the lank of wet hair that flopped into her eye. "No, I am fine," she lied as she quickly dried herself and reached for some undergarments.

They were soft and clean and Fantine could not help pausing to appreciate their texture as she pulled them on.

"Do come out from behind the screen," Lady Charlotte urged. "I've found some clothes that may fit you."

Fantine did as she was bidden, slipping closer to the fire in the beautiful violet and white bedchamber. As she moved, she studied her hostess, noticing the family resemblance between Lady Charlotte and Marcus. Both were tall and strong, their hair light, their eyes alert and keen, though Lady Charlotte's eyes were more hazel than Marcus's clear blue. Looking at her hostess now, Fantine realized it would be easy for the woman to adopt the same haughty disdain that she had seen so often from Marcus, but apparently, she had chosen not to. Ever polite, she smiled often, maintaining a concerned aspect rather than a critical one.