Secret Admirer Page 13

  “No,” CeCe concurred, smiling at him mischievously, “you wouldn’t.”

  His was not a difficult pledge to keep because as he sat across from Tuesday while she trounced him at cards two hours later, he could barely believe that any of what CeCe had said was true. By far the more difficult task was to reconcile the image of the clumsy, sobbing, abandoned wife CeCe had drawn with what he was seeing.

  Because she did not seem hurt and upset.

  Because her movements were graceful and sure and deft.

  Because it was impossible to believe that any man who once possessed Lady Tuesday Arlington would ever let her go.

  “You are not very good at this,” she informed him, dealing out the cards. “How did you ever make any money in gambling clubs?”

  Lawrence, jolted out of his thoughts, replied stiffly, “I owned them, I did not play in them.” Tell her about the visit from Curtis’s mistress he commanded himself, but he couldn’t get the words out.

  “Ah, that’s the key. Do you still have any?”

  “Why?”

  She looked up at him and he could see she was genuinely curious. “I was just wondering. It seems as though we should know more about each other if we are to share such close quarters.”

  “I do not see how my relationship to gaming hells is any of your business.” Tell her!

  “You sound like my brother Howard. Do you have any siblings Lord Pickering?”

  “Yes. One. A brother.”

  “Is he also an earl?”

  “No. He is a hangman.”

  If he expected that to shut her down as it did with every other woman of his acquaintance, he was wrong. Curiosity turned to blazing interest. “Really? Of course. Bull Pickering. Bull is your brother? You don’t look anything like him. He is so much more—”

  “So much more what?” Lawrence was about to demand, then thought better of it. He did not care. “How do you know Bull?”

  “I don’t know him. I’ve only heard of him. CeCe loves to read all about every hanging in the metropolis. It soothes her. Makes her feel like there are fewer thieves, robbers, and general blackguards loitering around to prey on her.”

  “Why is she so concerned about robbers?”

  “I believe they offend her senses of propriety and cleanliness. Anyone who opposes robbers, on the other hand, is a hero in her eyes. She has told me all about Bull Pickering. Wait—if you are his brother, then you are the one who made sure he went to school every day even though you did not go yourself.”

  “CeCe told you that?”

  “Read it to me. There was an exclusive interview with him in one of the news sheets where he told the story of his life. Apparently if you don’t think your brother still resents being packed off to school while you got to dilly dally the day away, you are wrong.”

  Lawrence found he was not thinking as clearly as he wanted to be. He knew she was jesting; he had heard Bull say things like that a hundred times, and yet he heard himself saying a little too vehemently, “I was trying to support us. We had to eat. We could not both go—”

  “I do not think he really meant it, Lord Pickering,” Tuesday said soothingly. She had not expected him to react so—well, reactively. “From what CeCe read to me, the rest of the interview was filled with Bull talking about you as if you were something the Deity molded with his own hands. No wonder I didn’t realize you and that Lawrence Pickering were one and the same.”

  “What a lovely compliment.”

  “You can hardly blame me. According to Bull you practically turn water to gold, you daily save millions of boys from the streets, the corridors of your house are always swarming with hundreds of women who would rather be hanged for adultery than miss the opportunity to share your bed, and you cared for him when he was only five and you were eight and your mother left you both standing in the stable yard of a—”

  “That is not true,” Lawrence said tightly.

  “Ah, yes. The news sheet went into this at great length. Bull says you claim she got sick and died and that is why you had to raise him. But he remembers your mother saying to sit on this one particular rock and not let go and she would come back for you, and so you did and watched her drive off and the two of you stayed there over night, afraid that if you let go or left she would never forgive you, and then the next morning you realized she wasn’t coming back, so you went out and—”

  “That is not what happened!”

  The force of his reaction stunned them both. The lie shimmered uselessly in the silent air between them. Because Tuesday was looking right at Lawrence and she saw—in the lines of determination around his eyes from years of hard work, in the firm set of his shoulders that showed he could face anything, in the strong hands that had done everything from haul garbage to escort a queen, in the quick easy smile that hid more than a frown—the larger boy huddling protectively over a smaller figure on the flat gray stone in the dark courtyard, scared and cold and wondering where his mother was and determined at all costs not to let his brother ever know the rejection he felt at that moment.

  His hands evened out the small pile of biscuits he had left. “If Bull wishes to romanticize our childhood he may, but I will not be a party to it,” he said, his voice and his face, at least, back under control.

  “I am sure you are right. I’m sure that is what he was doing.” She paused. “It must have been hard when your mother died. I was eleven when I lost mine, older than you, and part of me still misses her.”

  Lawrence made a dismissive gesture. “It is harder when you are older. I barely remember her.”

  “Of course.” Tuesday gathered her biscuits into a disheveled pile. Silence settled around them again, until she said, “I started my book, the book of faces, when my mother died. I forgot what she looked like and I hoped that if I collected enough noses and mouths and chins I would get her back.” She had never admitted that to anyone before.

  “What an interesting idea,” Lawrence commented.

  “It only partially worked,” she went on. “One day I realized that I could just draw what I wanted and tell myself it was a picture of her. That she could be anyone, any way I wanted to remember her.”

  “So you did not care about the truth. It was just the illusion you were after,” he said absently, now ordering his biscuits in two controlled stacks.

  He wasn’t even listening to her. She had told him one of her secrets and—“You are right, Lord Pickering. And that would have made it completely indistinguishable from the hundreds of other lies we tell ourselves to mask what we don’t want to know. Not you, of course. The rest of us mortals.”

  Silence. Then the sound of two stacks of biscuits being smashed to pieces under a strong fist. Lawrence did not offer any apology, any explanation. He simply swept the crumbs into his hand, dropped them in the fireplace grate, dusted his palms off and said, “I find myself rather tired. I will have a lot of work to do tomorrow if my men find the Secret Admirer and I will want to be rested. Good night, Lady Arlington. Wake me if you have one of your nightmares.”

  Tuesday watched him walk to the settee and lie down on it. It was about three feet too short and, she knew from experience, horribly lumpy. Through the muddle of her confused emotions, she found herself hoping he had to sleep there for a long, uncomfortable time.

  His feet poked off the end and as he settled into sleep he wiggled his toes. There was something about the gesture that startled Tuesday, made her chest feel tight. It was the gesture of a little boy. It was, unlike the rest of him, so human.

  Suddenly she hoped he would not sleep there long at all.

  Part II: Eat

  Chapter 18

  Lawrence woke up in the middle of the night to the feel of her naked body pressed along his on the settee.

  “What are you—”

  “Shhh,” she told him, placing a finger over his lips.

  “But—”

  She kissed the words away and c
limbed on top of him. Outlined by the moonlight, her body was even more incredible than he had imagined it to be. She led his hand to her breast and cupped his palm around it, urging his thumb over her nipple.

  She slid her own hands down his chest, to his breeches, slipping them along the edge of the waistband as she purred, “Make love to me, Lawrence.”

  His name from her lips blazed through him, setting his body alight. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her hungrily. He was starving for her, aching for her with his entire body. His mouth found her nipple and she arched against him, brushing her thigh along his humming member. He was going to make love to her for hours, for days. He groaned and reached down to touch her, and woke up for real.

  Lawrence was aware of layers of discomfort in his body as his eyes shot open, but nowhere more than in his stomach. His back hurt, his neck twinged, and his—well, other parts of him ached like they were on fire, especially with the soft purr of her imagined words in his head. But it was his stomach that bothered him because he could not figure out what was wrong with it.

  Then it hit him. He was hungry.

  He had not been hungry for two years.

  He was also thirsty. And he had an itch. And he had been having an erotic dream about—

  It was a dream wasn’t it? He sat up abruptly, wincing at the pressure on his aroused member. Overcast morning light barely filtered into the room through the windows but it was enough to show him that he was alone and not just on the settee. The bed was empty.

  His mind ticked off observations: Good that it was only a dream. Bad that Lady Arlington was not in her room where she should be.

  There would be no more erotic dreams he decided. And where the hell was Tuesday?

  He was about to start—what had she called it? barking orders?—at his men when a solicitous voice behind him asked, “Are you all right?” He turned to see CeCe hovering in the doorway. “You looked just now like you were in pain,” she said, and he was not sure if, after their conversation the night before, she was glad or sorry. “Is there something I can do to help you?” she asked.

  “What time is it?”

  “Half past nine. Would you like some breakfast? Tuesday had hers before she went—”

  “Went where?” he demanded harshly.

  CeCe took a step backward. “Only upstairs. To see her father. I believe she is with him now.”

  “She had better be.” Lawrence combed his hair with his fingers, leaving it standing up in clumps. He needed to shave and his clothes felt and looked slept in but he could not be bothered with that. Not even if they made Tuesday Arlington gape at him the way she did when she came into the studio at that moment.

  The sight of him, tousled and unkempt, sent a shock wave through her body that made it hard to stand. Then she reminded herself of what had already happened that morning and bit out, “It is not as though I had a choice.”

  “About what?”

  “Whether I was here or not. I wanted to go see my brother and your men would not let me out of the house. My own house.”

  Lawrence was delighted to learn that some of his employees were able to follow orders about her. Looking at her as she stood there, radiating anger, he was not sure he would have been able to. He spoke as gruffly as possible. “You are not supposed to go anywhere without me. I go where you go. Besides, you don’t know where Jack is.”

  “Why—what have you done with him?”

  “I had him moved. For his protection.”

  All the color drained from her face. “You put him in an institution.”

  “Not exactly—”

  “Take me to him.” She was trembling.

  “That is not a good idea and—”

  “Take me to him right now!”

  “—besides we have an investigation—”

  “I swear to you, Lord Pickering, if you have done anything to hurt my brother, if you have arrested him or put him somewhere that scares him, I will make you suffer in ways you could not imagine, let alone dream.”

  Her choice of words was unfortunate, reminding Lawrence of what he had done and what he was not going to do in the future. “Jack is fine and that is all you need to know,” he said crisply.

  “Take. Me. To. My. Brother.” She stood with her chest practically touching his, her breath hot on his chin, her eyes flashing. “Now.”

  Lawrence saw that he had two choices. He could pull her onto the settee and make love to her. Or he could take her to her brother.

  He ordered his coach made ready and half an hour later they were passing out between the city gates. Tuesday saw that they were driving into the suburbs but she was too furious to see anything else. She looked down and realized that she had begun to unravel the elaborately embroidered “LP” on the seat cushion behind her. She put it aside, then unseeingly picked it up again. By the time, two hours later, their completely silent journey ended, her lap was covered with silver thread and the only monogram remaining on the interior of the coach was the one on the pillow Lawrence had stashed under his head as he pretended to sleep.

  He had not wanted to tell her about Jack. He did not want her visiting Doom Manor. He did not want her to see what it was like, what he had done. Not just with her brother. With everything. The thought of Tuesday looking at it made him extremely self-conscious and uncomfortable. Although it would probably be fine provided he could keep her out of the Basking Room.

  They had pulled into the stable yard of what appeared to Tuesday at first glance to be a medieval fortress. The walls of Doom Manor were made not of bricks but of impenetrable slabs of sandstone and the roofline was punctuated every four feet or so by a strange—ominous, Tuesday thought—series of turrets and towers. Over the bulk of it grew red ivy, which many people found pastoral but Tuesday thought resembled a huge blood stain.

  She took all this in as she leaped from the coach and rushed headlong toward the nearest open door. Before she could enter, a dozen chattering boys came streaming out, bowed quickly to her, and formed a cluster around Lawrence as he alighted from the coach. They were joined by a dozen more and a dozen more, until Tuesday found herself being buffeted on all sides by a sea of boys.

  Happy looking boys. None of whom were her brother.

  “Where is Jack?” she demanded as Lawrence pushed through the crowd. He was about to answer when Jack himself appeared out of the stables, leading a beautiful gray mare.

  “Tuesday!” he whooped, throwing his cap—a new cap, it looked like it was blue velvet—in the air and rushing to her. He picked her up easily and spun her around. “Tuesday came, Tuesday came,” he said, happier than she could ever remember seeing him, brilliantly, spectacularly happy.

  “Come meet Frank,” he insisted, dragging her through the boys toward the stables. “Frank is this horse. Jack’s friend Lawrence says Jack can have any horse he wants,” he confided to Tuesday. “Or a different one every day as long as Jack does his job.”

  Tuesday swallowed a lump in her throat and tore her gaze from her absolutely glowing brother. “What job?” she asked Lawrence warily.

  Lawrence avoided meeting her eyes. That was all the answer she needed. “Jack,” she began, “I am afraid—”

  “Our library is in pretty bad disarray and I thought Jack’s skills would be perfect for helping to organize it,” Lawrence interrupted to explain.

  “Jack has to remember where the books are. And Jack can read however many Jack wants. Or how few,” he chortled to himself and winked at Lawrence as if they shared a joke. “And Jack can have a different pony each day. And Tuesday can come visit every week. Do you want to see where Jack works?”

  Tuesday nodded, biting her lip. This was Jack as she had always wished he could be, confident and unafraid. And happy. This was Jack as she had always hoped she could make him. Lawrence Pickering had done something she’d been unable to do, and for a moment she felt a prick of something like envy. But then Jack reappeared, a grin literally sp
litting his face, and all she could feel was gratitude.

  The library astonished her. The room itself was three times the size of her studio, and it was heaped with books. Lawrence had not exaggerated when he said the collection was in disarray. It looked to Tuesday as though someone had left a standing order to have every book printed in London delivered and then dumped on the tables of the room without caring where they went, nor was she far off. And although she could not precisely say why—could sense but not really see the figure up all night for weeks and months of nights reading every book he could put his hands on in the hopes that one of them would evoke something, anything—she had the sense that Lawrence had read them all.

  A short boy with freckles over his nose skidded into the room and said, “Master Jack, do you know where Plutarch’s Lives is?”

  Jack went to a huge pile of books and reached into the middle. “English or Latin, Ryan?”

  “Better stick with English,” the boy replied, taking the huge volume and scooting on his way.

  Jack beamed at Ryan’s back, then motioned Tuesday toward him to whisper, “Ryan was living on fish tails behind the old market before Jack’s friend Lawrence found him. Now he is the best historian in the world.” Three other boys came in and asked for Jack’s assistance, and as each of them left he filled Tuesday in on their backgrounds. One of them had been a stowaway on Lawrence’s ship to Spain—“but they found him just in time and sent him here and now he is the best lawn tennis player in the world.” Another one, with a slight limp, had been found beaten half to death by some underworld thugs for trying to see his mother, who worked at one of the brothels, and he was now the best tumbler in the world. A third couldn’t speak that well because his stepfather had yanked out all his teeth and sold them as saint’s relics—“but Lawrence is having a new set made, out of diamonds, and they’ll be better than the first; they will be the best teeth in the world.” Although the veracity of some of Jack’s superlatives was suspect, the main thrust of the stories rang true. Tuesday managed to piece together that Doom Manor had been Lawrence’s country house until, just before leaving for Spain, he had used the money he made in business to turn it into a home for abandoned boys. Or, as Jack put it “the luckiest boys in the world.”