Elizabeth Rolls – In Debt To The Earl (страница 8)

Damn it, she was shivering, her lips nearly blue. ‘You should get out of those wet clothes,’ he said, trying very hard not to notice the long, lovely line of her legs in the breeches and wrinkled stockings. Or the way the damp sleeves of the rough shirt clung to her slender arms. He could only thank God that she wore a waistcoat. ‘Tell me where the fuel is and I’ll light the fire.’

Her chin lifted. ‘There’s no need.’

‘The devil there isn’t,’ he said. ‘You must be half-­frozen.’

Her soft mouth set in a stubborn line he was coming to know. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine once I change. Which I’ll do when you’ve left.’

‘You need a fire,’ he insisted. ‘Where is the fuel?’

‘There isn’t any,’ she said at last. ‘I... I forgot to order it.’

Colour stained her cheeks again and at last the truth sank in—she couldn’t afford fuel. Her bastard of a father had left her high and dry to shift for herself and she couldn’t afford fuel. That was why she’d been playing on the street.

He strode to the door.

‘You’re leaving?’

He paused with his hand on the latch. Did she have to sound so damned relieved? ‘I’m getting fuel,’ he growled. ‘Change while I’m gone.’

* * *

Lucy stared at the door which had shut with something very like a bang. Who did he think he was, ordering her about? Was she a child? Incapable of thinking for herself? She wasn’t answerable to him.

But somewhere inside, beyond the reach of chilly clothing, there was a comforting warmth that someone cared enough to scold about wet clothes and insist on a fire. Even though he’d find it impossible to obtain wood or coal at this hour, it was kind of him to try. Although if he were planning to wait and see if Papa showed up this evening, he might be thinking of his own comfort.

She glanced around. She daren’t change in her curtained-­off corner in case he came back. Shivering, she collected her gown from its hook in the corner, holding it out at arm’s length to keep it dry, and hurried into the other room.

By the time she had peeled off her damply clinging clothes, rubbed herself down briskly and dressed again, she’d heard the door open and close. Assured footsteps sounded. She was still cold. Not the bone-numbing cold of before, but cold. A fire would have been lovely, but a dish of jellied eels later would do. She sighed. Good manners dictated that she offer bread and cheese to her unwelcome guest.

She opened the door to the parlour. At least he wouldn’t have found fuel, so she wouldn’t have to pay him for—

A heaped bucket of coal stood beside the hearth with a pile of kindling and Mr Remington was crumpling up old newspaper. She swallowed, saying farewell to the rent money.

‘Where did you get that?’

He kept crumpling. ‘Your landlady.’

‘Oh. Er...thank you. I’ll pay her in the morning.’ And there, right there, was a lie—she didn’t have enough money. She steeled herself. ‘How much was it?’

‘I’ve paid her.’

‘Paid her?’

‘Yes. Come and sit down.’ He began to set kindling on top of the paper with a quick efficiency that surprised her. Not at all like her uncle or cousin, neither of whom had ever laid a fire.

He’d set the chair for her and—she blushed at the sight—he’d placed the blanket from her pallet on it. Something in her trembled at the thought of him touching her bedding.

Idiot! He probably handled it with his gloves on to avoid catching anything!

‘How much do I owe you?’ She kept her voice steady, but Papa would be furious if it came out of his winnings.

‘What?’ His voice was brusque as he reached for the tinder box she’d had no use for in weeks. ‘Wrap that blanket around yourself.’

‘I can look after myself,’ she said, sitting in the chair and tucking the threadbare blanket around her shoulders.

‘Then next time, don’t stay out so long that you risk taking a chill,’ he answered, setting the touchwood to the paper.

She choked back the urge to explain herself. She owed him no explanation—only whatever he had paid Mrs Beattie for the fuel.

‘I owe you money for the coal. How much?’

There was a moment’s silence except for the crackle as the fire took hold. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said at last, standing up and stepping back from the fire.

‘Sir—Mr Remington—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘How often do you perform in the street?’

That was none of his business either, but she supposed there was no harm in answering. ‘Every so often.’ The warmth from the leaping fire reached her, seeped into the chill.

‘I suppose you think the clothes are a disguise.’

She glared up at him, holding out her hands to the blaze. ‘No one else has ever noticed!’

‘You think?’

The sarcasm stung, but she ignored it. ‘They didn’t even notice in the tavern we—’

‘Tavern?’ Grey eyes bored into her. ‘What the hell were you doing in a damn tavern, dressed as a boy no less?’

‘Eating my dinner,’ she shot back.

‘In a tavern,’ he repeated. ‘And how do you know you weren’t noticed?’

‘Because,’ she said without thinking, ‘no one pinched my bum!’

There was a moment of stunned silence she could have cut.

‘Your—what?’

She gritted her teeth. Her grandparents, Grandpapa in particular, had spent years teaching her to curb her temper and think before she spoke. This man somehow undermined her hard-won self-control. Well, she’d said it and there was no use pretending she hadn’t. Or that he hadn’t heard, and probably said, worse. Gentlemen did. Even her grandfather had used a few choice words when his favourite mare stepped on his foot.

‘My bum,’ she said. ‘Fitch said if—’

‘Fitch?’

‘The boy with me. He said if I—’

‘That was Fitch?’

‘Yes. He said it was safer to stay in the boys’—’ His tone of voice registered and fear curled through her. He’d sounded as if he knew something of Fitch. ‘Why are you interested in him?’ She could think of any number of reasons to be interested in Fitch. Especially if you carried an expensive watch and chain, and a purse that dripped crowns...

‘Someone mentioned him as a friend of yours.’ He sounded angry.

‘Is there something wrong with that?’ she demanded.

The hands that had built the fire so easily curled to fists. ‘Apparently not. I’m sure your father approves.’

She snorted. ‘Papa’s never laid eyes on Fitch.’

James reined in the rising anger. None of this was her fault. Not even the fact that he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that her supposed protector was a mere child. It was none of his concern. So why had he gone down and fronted the grimy Mrs Beattie to buy fuel for the girl? Why the hell was he still here? His body had a very obvious answer and it wasn’t one he entirely liked.

‘Where does he live?’

Overhead something creaked and the girl’s gaze flickered upward as she frowned.

‘Something up there?’ James asked.

‘I hope not another leak,’ she said. ‘It’s probably a cat. They fight on the roof. Are you going to leave?’

‘Soon enough,’ he said. ‘Where does the boy live?’

‘Hereabouts,’ she said eventually.

‘Where?’

‘Nowhere, really. He’s an orphan. He picks up a living where he can.’

James bit back an oath. It didn’t take much intelligence to work out what that living would involve. And it wasn’t uncommon for pickpockets to use a street performer as a cover. ‘Hell’s teeth, girl! Where have your wits gone begging?’ he ground out, fear clawing at his belly. ‘If he plies that trade while you’re playing your fiddle, you’ll both hang!’