Chapter Seventeen

 

 

 

“Here ye are gents. As promised.” Sauntering back up to the table with three pitchers of ale in hand, Felix Spencer slid one to Hawke, the other to Grant, and kept the third for himself. Casually dressed in gray trousers, a white cotton shirt that was open at the collar, and a loose fitting brown jacket, the thief-turned-runner blended in perfectly with The Pony’s preferred clientele of middle-class riff raff.

Felix had arrived shortly after Grant and since then the three men – in addition to Lettie, who remained firmly ensconced on Grant’s lap – had been passing the time with idle chat and ale.

“Damn well took you long enough,” Grant muttered as he lifted his tankard.

“It’s a bleedin’ madhouse in here.” Felix braced his arm against the back of his chair and looked over his shoulder. The Pony had become so crowded that the serving wenches were struggling to get to their tables which was why they’d sent Felix up to the bar. When he was younger, Grant had preferred the refined elegance of a gentleman’s club to a cramped tavern that smelled like sweat and stale beer, but since becoming a runner he’d come to appreciate the allure of a noisy pub.

“The match at Darby McCall’s just ended.” Grant offered Lettie a sip of his ale, but with a delicate sniff she shook her head.

“Never touch the stuff. Tastes like horse piss to me.”

He couldn’t say he disagreed.

“Who won?” Felix asked, one dark brow rising.

“Belcher,” Hawke grunted unexpectedly from the corner. He’d been so quiet Grant had nearly forgotten he was there.

“It speaks,” Felix said with a grin.

“Sod off,” Hawke muttered into his tankard.

“Hawke’s right,” Grant said, tipping his ale in the behemoth’s direction. “Belcher took it in the third round. Complete knockout.” A grimace contorted his features. “Hayworth never saw it coming.”

With a knowing smirk Felix asked, “How much did ye lose?”

“What makes you think I bet against Belcher?”

“Because ye never pick the winner.”

Arrogant pup, Grant thought silently.

“I could have this time,” he said, shifting Lettie to his left thigh as he straightened in his chair and met Felix’s mocking grin with a cool, unblinking stare.

“But ye didn’t,” Felix said cheerfully, speaking with the confidence of someone who knew they were right beyond a single shadow of a doubt. Which he was, loathe as Grant was to admit it.

His inability to win a wager was the worst kept secret on Bow Street. Whoever he chose – whether it be a boxer, or a horse, or a bloody turtle in a turtle race – always ended up coming in last. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so damned irritating, and if he believed in such nonsense he would have thought he was cursed. As it was, he chalked it up to bad luck. But what Felix didn’t know – what no one knew – was that there was one bet he had no intention of losing.

No matter how long it took.

“No,” he admitted, shaking his head in self-disgust. “Only would have lost half that if Hayworth had stayed on his feet but the bastard went down like a pile of bricks.”

Felix coughed into his tankard. “Fifty soddin’ pounds! Jesus. If ye wanted to toss your money away ye could have just given it to me.”

“Wasn’t Lady Irvine’s necklace worth three times that?” Grant asked, never above reminding Felix of where he’d come from…and where he’d return to if Grant had anything to say about it.

“Aye,” Felix said carelessly, “but a tight-assed bounder made me give it back.”

“I never liked boxing,” Lettie interceded, her sweet voice helping to temper the prickling wall of animosity between Felix and Grant. She gave a tiny shudder. “Too much blood for my taste.”

“That’s what makes it interesting, sweetheart,” said Grant, stroking her arm more out of habit than any true gesture of affection. “That’s what men pay to see.”

“Well I think it’s vile.”

“Do you know what else is vile?” Determined to wake his cock the hell up, Grant cupped Lettie’s ear and whispered a wicked suggestion that made her gasp and slap at the hand that was stealing up her skirts.

“You are so very naughty,” she cooed with delight.

“I believe that is my cue to leave. Gentleman.” His nod towards Felix noticeably shorter than the one he gave Hawke, he tossed Lettie effortlessly over his shoulder and headed for the door. A sharp whistle and a hackney for hire all but stopped in its tracks. The inside smelled of moldy velvet and something else which he didn’t even want to contemplate, but such accommodations were only to be expected this far east of Grosvenor Square.

“23 Hawthorne Lane,” he told the driver as he tossed Lettie onto the springboard seat and climbed in after her. With a squeal she clambered to the opposite end of the hackney, but not before flipping her skirts up and offering him a tantalizing view of her rosy pink thighs.

“Why Miss Charlotte,” he drawled, a seductive gleam in his sharp green gaze as his arm shot out and captured her wrists above her head. “I don’t believe you’re wearing any undergarments.”

“Maybe you should check for yourself,” she purred, her legs falling apart in an open invitation that Grant willed himself to receive. But when he began to kiss her neck he found himself yearning for the scent of lavender. And when he glanced at the hair caught in his hands he was disappointed to find it wasn’t red.

“Bloody hell,” the curse tore itself from the depths of his chest as he flung himself away from Lettie. Hands clenching into knotted fists of frustration and bewilderment, he threw back his head and glared at the ceiling.

“Lord Hargrave?” Lettie questioned uncertainly. He heard the creak of the seat as she sat up, and then the quiet rustle of fabric as she straightened her dress. “What’s wrong?”

Juliet, he thought darkly. Juliet is what’s wrong.

His little jewel thief had ruined any other woman for him…and then she’d disappeared like a white rabbit into a magician’s hat, never to be seen or heard from again. Every time he thought about their last kiss it filled him with unspeakable anger…and uncontrollable lust.

He’d kissed Lettie – and others – in the hopes that it would make him forget her, but it only seemed to make his yearning for her worse. In all his life he had never felt anything like this. It was a weight he couldn’t shake off. A dark cloud he couldn’t escape. Over the past nine months he’d spent time with some of the most beautiful women in all of England. And yet every single one had paled in comparison to Juliet.

If they had her beauty, they lacked her spirit. If they had her spirit…

Well, that was the ruddy problem, wasn’t it? 

No one had her spirit.

“I’m sorry, Lettie. I shall have my driver return you to The Pony and I’ll compensate you for your time.”

They’d reached their destination: Grant’s residence, a stately three-story townhouse that sat back from the street behind a long wrought-iron fence. Cream stucco over brick, it blended in perfectly with the rest of the townhouses in the terrace. Brass lanterns mounted on either side of the front door glowed in the darkness, spilling light onto a narrow brick pathway lined with neatly trimmed shrubs.

A footman dressed in navy blue livery opened the door, letting in a welcome rush of sweet smelling spring air into the stale interior of the hackney. Stepping down without assistance of a block, Grant turned and braced his hand on the doorframe.

“Will you be all right to return by yourself?” he asked Lettie, who smirked and rolled her eyes.

“Your concern for me is touching, Lord Hargrave, but I think I will be able to manage.” Her gaze dipped pointedly to his trousers before flicking back to his face. “I believe the real question is will you be all right.”

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

“Really? Because in all the time we’ve known each other I’ve never once left a carriage with my hair still in place. And look.” She gently patted her coiffure. “Not a single pin undone. I know it’s not me. And as there are only two of us in this little scenario…”

“You’re excused,” Grant told the footman as Lettie’s voice trailed away. Waiting until the servant was out of earshot, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. “You’re right. It’s not you.” Were it any other woman – or man, for that matter – he would have bitten his tongue. But he trusted Lettie not to say anything. More than that, he trusted whatever advice she might be able to give him. If anyone understood the intricate workings of the human mind and body, it was the infamous Charlotte Green.

Lettie might have pretended to be an empty-headed piece of fluff when she was at The Pony, but they’d spent enough time together outside of the pub for him to know that she was actually quite witty and very intelligent.

“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine?” he asked.

“Is that all I’d be coming in for?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “Sorry darling, but the night is still young and I’ve my eye on a handsome viscount back at The Pony. Word has it he’s on the hunt for a mistress. But enough about me.” She waved her hand in the air. “What in dickens name is wrong with you? I’ve known plenty of men whose flags have failed to sail at full mast, but you’ve never been one of them.”

Grant gritted his teeth. “Do you think I don’t bloody know that?”

“Well?” Lettie said with an expectant arch of her brow.

“There’s…a woman,” he began, choosing his words carefully. No one knew who Juliet was or what she meant to him. Hell, even he didn’t know that. All he’d told the captain was the jewel thief he was chasing after was a female…and that she’d gone to ground. Owen had put him on other cases, but he’d made it clear he wanted an arrest made whenever she resurfaced.

“There always is,” Lettie said dryly. “Go on. Who is she? A fair-haired debutante who collects lace doilies and plays the harp?”

Grant didn’t bother to suppress his snort. “Not exactly. She’s a bit…rough around the edges.”

“A commoner.” Lettie’s eyes lit up. “How intriguing. I take it you haven’t introduced her to your dear mum.”

“No,” he said shortly. “She’s not fit for polite company.”

“Well, I must say she doesn’t sound at all like your usual sort.”

That was the understatement of the century.

“She isn’t,” he admitted, rubbing his chin. “She is not like anyone I have ever met before. She grew up in St Giles and as a result she’s more wild than tame.” His forehead creased in a scowl. “Not to mention she’s drawn a pistol on me. Twice.”

“Have you taken a flyer with her yet?”

“What the devil does that have to do with anything?” he demanded. 

“I shall take that as a no.” Lettie rolled her eyes. “You fancy nabobs are all the same. You are so accustomed to getting what you want, when you want it, that you’ve forgotten what it feels like to chase after something. Or in this case, someone. It’s like dangling a piece of sweet meat in front of a baby. The baby doesn’t really want the sweet meat. No one likes sweet meat. But it desires what it cannot have to the point where it will disregard all other treats until it gets what it wants.”

“You’re saying I only want this woman because I cannot have her?” 

“Well, either that or you’ve fallen head over heels in love with her.” Her expression vaguely pitying, she leaned forward and patted his hand. “Either way, you need to find her and bed her. A good, satisfying romp fixes everything, to my way of thinking. When it’s done you’ll still want her or you won’t, but at least you’ll have your answer.

Love?

Grant scoffed at the very idea.

He wasn’t in love with Juliet. That would be almost as ridiculous as kissing a thief. His jaw tightened. Could what he was feeling actually be…

No.

Absolutely not.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Lettie. But I’m afraid it’s not going to work in this case. The last thing I should do is sleep with her.”

Perhaps if he said it out loud he would actually believe it. 

The blonde’s shoulders lifted and fell in an elegant shrug. “Have it your way. I do hope your little problem resolves itself soon. It’s a dread shame to have to keep such a handsomely endowed stud in the stables.” 

Grant stepped back, giving the hackney room to turn around. “Good luck with your earl.”

“Oh darling, I don’t need luck.” Lettie cupped her breasts and gave them a little jiggle. “I have these.” She waited a moment, then glanced down at his crotch. “Anything?”

“No,” he said darkly. Lettie’s breasts were lovely, but when he looked at them all he thought about was what Juliet’s would feel like when he unwrapped them from their bindings. He’d kiss the red marks from her soft, silky skin before he cupped her breasts and suckle one rosy nipple until she made the tiny mewling sound in the back of her throat that set his blood on fire…

Lettie made a tsking sound under her breath. “You’re worse off than I thought, darling. You need to find this girl, throw her legs up over her head, and tup her silly. There’s no other way around it. After you’re done bring her to The Pony,” she called out the window as the hackney lurched forward. “I’d like to buy her a drink.”

Grant waited until the hackney had turned the corner before he opened the gate, his footsteps falling heavily on the pebble-lined path. A footman was waiting at the door and he gave the young lad a brusque nod before he went up the stairs to his private chamber.

His personal valet had long since gone home for the night, but he’d left a clean nightshirt on the foot of the bed. Stripping down to his breeches, Grant washed his face and arms in a basin of lukewarm water before tossing the nightshirt aside and climbing between the sheets with nothing on save what he’d been born with.

Given the choice, he preferred to sleep in the nude. Particularly after a long, tiresome day when he did not have the patience to fuss with an article of clothing that might as well have been a dress with its ankle-length skirt and floppy collar. He didn’t know why Bernard kept insisting on leaving a nightshirt on the bed, other than the fact that he was a cheeky bastard and he knew it annoyed his employer.  

Leaning up on his elbow, Grant extinguished the candle on his bedside table with a single breath. With the curtains tightly drawn against the silvery light of a full moon, the room was immediately plunged into darkness. On a heavy sigh he fell back onto his pillow to stare blindly up at the ceiling, willing his mind to think of anything – anything at all – other than what had consumed him every night for the past nine months.

He actually managed to fall asleep without a single blessed thought in his head…but when he dreamed, he dreamed only of Juliet.