Princess Charming (5 page)

Lucy swallowed. “Suffrage is the right of every man.”

“What was that?” Mr. Whippet barked. The duchess swiveled her head toward Lucy as
fast as
her turban would allow.

“Yes, Lucy, what did you say?” Her eyes narrowed, but Lucy refused to flinch. If she were going to be made a martyr, she refused to go meekly.

“I said—”

The drawing room door swung open, and Scarborough, the ancient family butler, stepped inside with a small silver platter in hand, a white calling card resting atop the tray. “Viscount Wellstone, madam,” he intoned, his voice resonating in the sudden silence.

Lucy blanched. The dratted gardener had obviously gone to his employer forthwith, and Lady Belmont had dispatched her grandson to find the offending maid at Nottingham House. Bertha squealed at the news of the viscount’s arrival and brushed the crumbs from her bosom, tugging the neckline of her bodice lower with startling effect. Esmie glanced up from her book. The duchess actually rose from her reclining position and set both feet to the floor. Mr. Whippet bristled, angry that his lone masculine status in the room was now challenged.

Lucy watched with apprehension as the elegant Lord Wellstone entered the room and moved toward her stepmother. “Good day, Your Grace.” He smiled and bowed, and her stepmother’s face flushed with pleasure. Lucy’s stomach knotted.

“My lord.” The duchess inclined her head. The plumes on her turban waved perilously close to Lord Wellstone’s face. “This is a surprise. And a pleasure, too, of course. Do sit down.”

Bertha giggled again, and Lucy waited for the ax to fall. Lord Wellstone nodded to her stepsisters, including the silent Esmie in his acknowledgement. “Miss Esmerelda. Miss Bertha. Mr. Whippet, I believe,” he added with a brief nod to the other gentleman. He took the chair opposite her stepmother’s sofa. “I do hope my call is not ill-timed, but your man assured me that you were at home.”

Her stepmother and stepsister launched into twitters of denial of any inconvenience. Their compliments and effusions would have overcome most men, but Lucy watched in morbid fascination as the viscount appeared to encourage them in their outrageousness. Oddly, he ignored Lucy just as Esmie ignored the entire party, and Lucy breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps he had not come to denounce her after all.

“Would you care for tea, my lord?” her stepmother asked.

The viscount considered the teapot for a long moment. “I would, indeed, Your Grace.” He paused ever so slightly, his handsome face troubled. “Unfortunately, I can only do it justice when it is piping hot.”

“Lucy!” The duchess snapped her fingers. “You will bring more tea straightaway.”

Lucy’s head snapped up, and her cheeks colored. She started to refuse, but to her surprise, Lord Wellstone turned toward her and, beyond the view of the others in the room, gave her a surreptitious wink.

“This moment, Lucy.” The duchess made a shooing motion. Something very strange was happening. Lucy’s stomach churned.

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Lord Wellstone said rather insincerely, but her stepmother shushed him.

“It is no trouble, my lord.
Lucy,
”
she stressed, “will be glad to fetch a fresh pot of tea.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lucy agreed, still confused as to the viscount’s intent. Deciding that retreat was the better part of valor, Lucy bobbed a curtsy and left the room. She clambered down the back stairs as she tried to puzzle it out. Despite the fact that his grandmother lived next door, Lord Wellstone had never before paid a visit. If he was not here to denounce her for the contretemps in Lady Belmont’s garden, what could the man be thinking by establishing such an acquaintance and raising expectations?

Belowstairs, Cook still snored in her chair, and the fire burned low. Lucy reached for the scuttle to replenish the coal and then picked up the poker. Surely her life had grown complicated enough for one day. She was strategically arranging the coals among the embers when there was a knock at the open kitchen door. She turned and moaned softly under her breath when she saw her gardener standing on the threshold. Her dratted heart raced at the sight of him.

NICK CRINGED as the girl whirled around, clutching a poker in her hand. Having seen her wield the scythe in Lady Belmont’s garden, he knew to proceed with caution. After all, she had been rather adamant before about not wanting to be rescued.

“Hello.” Nick winced. Not a brilliant opening. The girl arched one pale eyebrow incredulously. Nick fought to hide a smile. She was a woman of spirit, he would certainly give her that. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d be cast into raptures at the sight of me.” He decided to take a chance and step inside. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the spare furnishings and an older woman, most likely the cook, snoring in the corner.

“Why are you here?” The girl hadn’t lowered the poker an inch. Nick ignored the fact that the sight of the hoyden sent his pulse skittering. It was only nerves. And battle fever, brought on by the altercation in Lady Belmont’s garden.

“I don’t believe those men are finished with you, princess, and I don’t fancy the idea of leaving you as easy prey for the likes of them.”

She turned away, and Nick wondered if she found something amiss with him physically, for she had avoided his gaze more than once in the garden, and she was now doing so again.

“You speak rather well for a gardener.” Despite the fact that he had come to her rescue earlier, suspicion was etched in every line of her body.

“And you speak rather well for a kitchen maid.” He admired her profile. Her cheek was flushed from the warmth of the fire, and her corkscrew curls formed a golden cloud around her head. It would help matters considerably if she weren’t so damnably appealing.

“I can imitate my betters,” she shot back. “And you?”

“My betters took pity upon me,” Nick improvised. “Thought some elocution lessons might improve my standing in the world.” That was true, to a certain extent. When he’d arrived in England, his native Santadorran accent had been thick as treacle. Crispin had made it his personal crusade to render Nick’s English comprehensible.

“It doesn’t appear to have improved your lot, since you’re still a gardener.” She lowered the poker the merest bit.

“Ah, but I wasn’t even a gardener before,” Nick said. His eyes moved to the length of iron in her hand. “Do you suppose you’ll put down that weapon anytime soon?” She looked at the poker, as if noticing it for the first time, and then her eyes rose to meet his. Their gazes held, and again Nick felt the ground shift beneath his ruined boots. Once more she looked away, and, by Jove, the disconcerting sensation ended as abruptly as it had begun. With a shrug, she returned the poker to its stand beside the fireplace and reached for the kettle.

“I don’t need your protection.” The words were sharp, defensive. “I can manage very well.”

His jaw clenched. “Princess, I have no doubt that you could hamstring both of those ruffians and the Home Secretary as well,” he said.

She jumped, dropping the kettle. A spray of boiling water flew from the spout. Nick bolted forward and yanked her toward him, away from the scalding stream. She collided with his chest, and he stumbled backward before finding his balance.

“Are you hurt?” The indescribable sensation of this golden-haired kitchen goddess pressed against him pierced him to the core. Every curve of her fit perfectly against him, and his body responded as it was meant to. Hastily, he set her back. Her eyes, soft and unfocused, mirrored his confusion.

“I’m f-fine,” she sputtered and pushed his arms away. “A silly mishap, nothing more.”

“Well, then, aren’t you two a fine pair o’ lovebirds?” a familiar voice said from the door. Nick turned to see the thug, Tully, standing in the threshold, Hector looming behind him with a length of rope in his hand.

“Confound it,” Nick muttered under his breath.

The girl tensed and slid toward the fireplace, where the poker still leaned in its stand. Nick started to stay her movement, but it would do more harm to call attention to her.

“Have you come back for another thrashing?” Nick mustered as much bravado as he could into the question.

“We want as wot we came for in the first place,” Tully said, jerking his head in the direction of the girl. “There’s those what wants to talk with ‘er.”

“And you think I’ll stand here and let you take her?” Nick actually laughed at that. Once he embarked upon a rescue, he brooked no interference. With deliberate nonchalance, he rolled up the sleeves of his smock. Clearly this day was not meant to be an easy one. “I thought we’d settled this once before.”

Tully rubbed his head. “Not to my liking.”

In the corner, the cook snorted. The sherry bottle dropped from her fingers and rolled across the room, spreading a stream of liquid in its wake. It rolled between Nick and the doorway until it bumped to a stop against the grate, where the girl’s fingers were closing around the handle of the poker. She looked at Nick, and then at the length of iron in her hand.

Nick was no idiot. “Now!” she cried, and he was ready when she tossed the poker through the air. He caught it and brandished it before him like a sword. The poker made a much better rapier than the cracked gardener’s scythe.

Tully started forward, lust for revenge distorting his face. His foot hit the sherry coating the stone floor, and suddenly he seemed to be flying through the air. Nick turned, changing his grip, and swung the poker like a cricket bat. The iron connected with the thug’s midsection with a satisfying thwack, and the miscreant doubled over before falling to the floor.

“Aw, now,” Hector grumbled from the doorway, “when ye ‘arm Tully, then I’m the one wot ‘as to do somethin’ about it.” He reluctantly crossed the threshold. “Why don’t ye just send ‘er with us, peaceful like, and no one ‘as
to be ‘urt.”

The giant moved toward the girl. Nick cast about for a weapon, since Tully was now wrapped around the poker, but the only thing at hand was the kettle the girl had dropped. Deciding that hot cast iron made as good a weapon as any, Nick snatched the kettle from the floor and, with one heave, sent it flying in a perfect arc that struck Hector on the temple.

The reluctant thug shot him a look of surprise before he crumpled to the floor.

“Hmm—what?” snorted the cook in the corner, rousing at last. Just then two more shapes loomed in the doorway, and Nick knew it was time to flee. He grabbed the girl’s wrist and towed her toward the stairs that led to the main part of the house.

“Stop!” commanded the voice from the doorway, but Nick refused to heed it, fully intent on carrying out the course of action he had only that morning sworn to avoid. They dashed up the stairs and into the wide hallway that ran the length of the house. Nick spotted the front door.

“Wait!” The girl pulled against his grip, but he was brooking no arguments. They passed an open doorway, and a glance inside revealed the Duchess of Nottingham and her daughters, as well as Crispin and another gentleman dressed all in black. But even his friend’s presence was not enough to keep Nick’s boots from moving toward the front door. He wanted this hellion somewhere private, somewhere quiet, and when he got her there, he was going to find out what in Hades those men wanted of her.

“Let me go,” the girl hissed, angry and not afraid.

“Lucy!” a shrill voice rang out, only it rang with exasperation and disdain, not panic. The black-and-white tile of the marbled foyer echoed under their feet as Nick hauled her along. He threw open the front door and, despite the girl’s protests, pulled her down the steps after him.

He was going to rescue her whether she liked it or not.