“My daughter, a flower of womanhood, a meek and dutiful gel.” The captain paced the length of the room, arm batting the air for emphasis, bandy legs stomping. “Innocent of the ways of the world, sheltered all her life, accosted not half a mile from her childhood home. Ha! Haven’t had a murder in Maiden Hill in a quarter century. Five and twenty years! And then you show up.”
The captain halted in midpace between the mantel and a table set with naval bric-a-brac. He drew an enormous breath. “Scoundrel!” he blasted, nearly taking Simon’s eyebrows off. “Ruffian! Cad! Vile endangerer of English, ah, er . . .” His lips moved as he searched for the word.
“Wenches,” Hedge supplied.
The manservant had brought in the tea earlier, instead of Betsy or Mrs. Brodie, apparently to deny Simon the succor of female sympathy. Hedge still lurked, fiddling with the silverware as an excuse, listening eagerly.
The captain glared. “Ladies.” He transferred his glower to Simon. “Never have I heard of such villainy, sirrah! What do you have to say for yourself? Eh? Eh?”
“I say you’re quite right, Captain.” Simon leaned back wearily on the settee. “Except for the ‘meek and dutiful’ part. With all due respect, sir, I’ve not noticed Miss Craddock-Hayes to be either.”
“You dare, sir, after nearly causing my daughter’s death!” The older man shook a fist in his direction, his face purpling. “Ha. Have you packed off from this house before the hour’s gone, I will. I’ll not stand for it. Lucy’s the very heart and soul of this community. Many people, not just me, hold her dear. I’ll see you run out of town on a rail, tarred and feathered, if I have to!”
“Cor!” Hedge interjected, his emotions obviously stirred by the captain’s speech; although, it was hard to tell whether from fondness for Lucy or the prospect of seeing a member of the nobility on a rail.
Simon sighed. His head was beginning to hurt. This morning he’d experienced the most bone-chilling fear he had ever felt, wondering if a bullet would kill the precious creature beneath him, knowing he would go mad if it did, terrified he would be unable to save her. He never wanted to feel that helpless dread for another’s life again. Of course, he hadn’t had much actual contact with the ground since Lucy’s soft limbs interposed themselves between his body and the earth. And hadn’t that been wonderful in a heart-stoppingly god-awful way? To feel what he’d vowed he never would—her face next to his, her rump snug against his groin. Even in the midst of his horror that this was all his fault, that his very presence had put her life in danger, even with layer upon layer of good English cloth between them, even then he’d responded to her. But Simon knew now that his angel could get a rise out of him if he were ten days dead, and it certainly wouldn’t be of the religious variety.
“I apologize most profusely for putting Miss Craddock-Hayes in danger, Captain,” he said now. “I assure you, though I know it does little good at this late date, that had I any inkling she would be imperiled, I would’ve slit my own wrists rather than see her harmed.”
“Fffsst.” Hedge made a derisive sound, oddly effective despite its wordlessness.
The captain merely stared at him for a very long minute. “Ha,” he finally said. “Pretty words, but I think you mean them.”
Hedge looked as startled as Simon felt.
“Still want you out of this house,” the captain grunted.
Simon inclined his head. “I already have Henry packing my things, and I’ve sent word to Mr. Fletcher at his inn. We will be out within the hour.”
“Good.” The captain took a seat and contemplated him.
Hedge hurried over with a cup of tea.
The older man waved him away. “Not that bilge water. Get the brandy, man.”
Hedge reverently opened a cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter half-full with a rich amber liquid. He poured two glasses and brought them over, then stood looking wistfully at the decanter.
“Oh, go ahead,” the captain said.
Hedge poured himself a scant inch and held the glass, waiting.
“To the fairer sex,” Simon proposed.
“Ha,” the older man grumbled, but he drank.
Hedge tossed back his brandy in one gulp, then closed his eyes and shuddered. “Wonnerful stuff, that.”
“Indeed. Know a smuggler on the coast,” the captain muttered. “Will she still be in danger once you leave?”
“No.” Simon tilted his head against the back of the settee. The brandy was fine, but it merely made his head worse. “They’re after me, and like the jackals they are, they’ll follow the scent away from here once I leave.”
“You admit you know these murderers?”
Simon nodded, eyes closed.
“Same ones as left you for dead?”
“Or their hired thugs.”
“What’s all this about, eh?” the captain growled. “Tell me.”
“Revenge.” Simon opened his eyes.
The old man didn’t blink. “Yours or theirs?”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
Simon looked into his glass, swirling the liquid, watching it paint the interior. “They killed my brother.”
“Ha.” The older man drank to that. “Then I wish you luck. Elsewhere.”
“I thank you.” Simon drained his glass and stood.
“’Course, you know what they say about revenge.”
Simon turned and asked the question, because it was expected and because the old man had been more lenient than he had any right to hope for. “What?”
“Be careful with revenge.” The captain grinned like an evil old troll. “Sometimes it twists around and bites you on the arse.”
LUCY STOOD AT HER NARROW BEDROOM window overlooking the drive and watched Mr. Hedge and Simon’s valet load the imposing black carriage. They appeared to be arguing over how to stack the luggage. Mr. Hedge was gesticulating wildly, the valet had a sneer on his uncommonly handsome lips, and the footman actually holding the box in question was staggering. They didn’t look like they would have the project done anytime soon, but the fact remained—Simon was leaving. Although she’d known this day would come, she somehow still hadn’t been expecting it, and now that it was here, she felt . . . what?
Someone knocked at her door, interrupting her confused thoughts.
“Come.” She let the gauzy curtain drop and turned.
Simon opened the door but remained in the hall. “May I have a word with you? Please.”
She nodded mutely.
He hesitated. “I thought we could take a turn around your garden?”
“Of course.” It wouldn’t be proper for her to talk to him alone here. She caught up a woolen shawl and preceded him down the stairs.
He held the kitchen door for her, and Lucy stepped into the cold sunshine. Mrs. Brodie’s vegetable garden was in a sad state this time of year. The hard earth was crusted with a thin layer of killing frost. Skeleton stalks of kale leaned in a drunken row. Beside them, some thin onion leaves were frozen to the ground, black and brittle. A few shrunken apples, missed at picking time, clung to the bare branches of the pruned trees. Winter overlaid the garden in a sleep that mimicked death.
Lucy folded her arms about herself and took a steadying breath. “You’re leaving.”
He nodded. “I can’t remain and put you and your family at further risk. This morning was too close, too deadly. If the assassin hadn’t missed his first shot . . .” He grimaced. “It was my own selfish vanity that let me stay so long as it is. I never should have lingered this past week, knowing what lengths they would go to.”
“So you will return to London.” She couldn’t look at him and remain impassive, so she kept her gaze on the rattling tree branches. “Won’t they find you there?”
He laughed, a harsh sound. “My angel, it is more a matter of me finding them, I fear.”
She did glance at him then. His face was bitter. And lonely.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
He hesitated, appeared to debate, then finally shook his head. “There is so much you do not know about me, will never know about me. Very few do, and in your case, I prefer it that way.”
He wasn’t going to tell her, and she felt an unreasoning spurt of rage. Did he still think she was a glass figurine to wrap in gauze? Or did he simply not respect her enough to confide in her?
“Do you really prefer I don’t know you?” She turned to face him. “Or do you say that to every naive woman you meet so they’ll think you sophisticated?”
“Think?” His lips quirked. “You cut me to the bone.”
“You’re fobbing me off with blather.”
He blinked, his head rearing back as if she’d slapped him. “Blather—”
“Yes, blather.” Her voice trembled with anger, but she couldn’t seem to steady it. “You play the fool so you won’t have to tell the truth.”
“I’ve only said it to you.” Now he sounded irritated.
Well, good. So was she. “Is that how you want to live? All alone? Never letting anyone in?” She shouldn’t push, she knew, as this was the last time they would see each other.
“It’s less a matter of wanting as it is . . .” He shrugged. “Some things can’t be changed. And it suits me.”
“It sounds a very solitary existence, and a not entirely satisfactory one,” Lucy said slowly, choosing her words carefully, lining them up like soldiers to do battle. “To go through life without a true confidant. Someone to whom you can reveal yourself without fear. Someone who knows your faults and weaknesses and who cares for you nonetheless. Someone for whom you don’t have to play a role.”
“You frighten me more than I can say at times.” His silver eyes gleamed as he whispered the words, and she wished she could read them. “Do not tempt a man so long without the bread of companionship.”
“If you stayed . . .” She had to stop and catch her breath; her chest felt tight. She gambled so much on these few seconds, and she needed to speak eloquently. “If you stayed, perhaps we could learn more about each other. Perhaps I could become that confidant for you. That companion.”
“I will not put you at further risk.” But she thought she saw hesitation in his eyes.
“I—”
“And that which you ask for”—he looked away—“I do not think I have it in me to give.”
“I see.” Lucy stared down at her hands. So this was defeat.
“If anyone—”
But she interrupted, talking quickly and loudly, not wanting to hear his pity. “You are from the fast city, and I am only a simple gentlewoman living in the country. I understand that—”
“No.” He turned back and took a step toward her so they stood only a hand’s width apart. “Don’t reduce what is between us to a conflict of rural and urban mores and ways.”
The wind blew against her and Lucy shivered.
He shifted so his body shielded hers from the breeze. “In the past week and a half, I have felt more than I ever have before in my life. You stir something in me. I . . .” He gazed over her head at the cloudy sky.
She waited.
“I don’t know how to express myself. What I feel.” He looked down at her and smiled faintly. “And that is very unusual for me, as you know by now. I can only say that I am glad that I’ve met you, Lucy Craddock-Hayes.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “And I, you.”
He took her hand and gently uncurled her fingers so that her palm lay cupped between his own like a flower nestled among leaves. “I will remember you all the days of my life,” he murmured so low she almost didn’t hear. “And I am not sure whether that is a blessing or a curse.” He bent over their hands, and she felt the warm brush of his lips against her cold palm.