Chapter Seven
Giles had been assigned to intelligence work in the army, though army intelligence had often struck him as a contradiction in terms. His tasks were usually no more dangerous than sitting outside a rural inn and counting the number of wheeled conveyances going past in an afternoon, watching to see which farmer was riding too fine a horse for the condition of his acres, or listening at tavern keyholes and interviewing soiled doves.
He’d learned how to follow someone without being obvious, though, and thus he was inconspicuous as he followed Lucy Fletcher from her garden gate late Tuesday evening.
The only explanation for her dismissal of his proposal was that she had another fish on the line, another gentleman panting after her. Why shouldn’t she? She was pretty enough—considering her age—she liked children, and she was trapped in the household of a priggish lord. Even a vicar’s cottage, where she could be mistress of her own humble world, would appeal by comparison. She’d be a fool to give up such a prospect if the gentleman had nearly come up to scratch.
She’d been so confident in her rejection that Giles concluded his rival must also figure in the lady’s immediate schedule.
Clearly, Giles had been correct, for Lucy wore a long, elegant cloak with the hood pulled up. A sleek town coach stopped in the mews for her—no crests showing—and she quickly ascended.
Naughty, naughty lady. But then, Giles knew she had an adventurous streak. He kept up easily with the coach—nobody went galloping through London at night—and hopped onto the boot of a passing carriage to follow the lady across the river.
To Vauxhall. Where else did lovers meet on cool and cozy nights?
Lucy was intent on a specific destination, for she directed her steps straight to the Lovers’ Walk, no safe place for a lady. She was, of course, on her way to an assignation. Otherwise, she’d never have gone even a short distance beyond the bright illumination elsewhere in the gardens.
She stopped under a stately oak, one casting deep shadows. The occasional couple, trio, or quartet strolled past, but they seemed to notice neither Lucy nor Giles loitering farther down the walk.
Giles’s plan dropped into his head all of a piece, as his best inspirations often did: Lucy was intent on meeting a lover here in the dark, and Giles would oblige her. When she realized that all caps truly were gray in the dark, and one swain could make her as happy as another, he’d have advanced his cause considerably, if not won the day.
* * *
Lucy had long ago deduced that the Lovers’ Walk was not as dangerous a venue as most chaperones wanted their young charges to believe.
In the first place, torches were placed at intervals, albeit wide, shadowy intervals. In the second, the path was frequented by those intent on discretion. Nobody was peering too closely at anybody else, by mutual, tacit agreement. In the third, the path was far from deserted. While not thronged by foot traffic, a lady crying out in distress would be heard and assistance forthcoming.
Of course, that lady’s reputation might emerge from the incident irreparably scarred, but her physical safety was at little risk.
Lucy’s confidence was further bolstered by the cloak she wore, a loan from Thor and marvelously warm. She’d drawn the hood up before leaving Marianne’s coach and had put Mr. DeCoursy’s Norse tales in her reticule in case she needed to defend herself from untoward advances.
Not that Thor would make any of those. He was a gentleman, of that Lucy had no doubt.
She was also convinced, however, that he was not her gentleman. He was a lovely memory, a very fine kisser, and a man deserving of every happiness, but—
Footsteps along the walkway on the far side of Lucy’s oak gave her pause. A man’s tread, though soft, even stealthy.
“My dear?” He spoke barely above a whisper. “Is that you?”
If Lucy peered around the tree, she’d give her location away, and yet, she could not be certain that was Thor’s voice.
“Madam, I beg you, don’t keep me in suspense. This is the appointed time and place, and I’m here, as agreed.”
Lucy stepped out from behind the oak. “Punctuality is likely one of your many fine attributes.”
She’d recalled Thor as somewhat taller, but perhaps her recollection wasn’t accurate. In the darkness, all she could tell for certain was that a man in a top hat and greatcoat stood a few feet away.
“You came,” he said, stepping closer.
Without his hammer, he seemed less a god and more a man embarking on a clandestine flirtation.
“As did you, though you must know that my purpose for keeping this appointment was simply to acknow—”
He took her in his arms somewhat roughly. “I’ve missed you so.”
What? and This is not Thor occupied Lucy’s mind simultaneously. The scent of this man was wrong, the shape of him wrong.
Giles? “Turn loose of me,” Lucy hissed. “Get your paws off me this instant.”
“I’ve thought of nothing but you,” he replied. “Of what we both long for.”
Good God. The cloak hampered Lucy from using her knee, so she tried to stomp on her assailant’s foot, but he was nimble, and she was being bent back off her balance.
One moment Giles—this had to be Giles—was planting wet kisses on her chin, the next he expelled a solid, “Ooof!” against her cheek.
“Get away from her,” said a cold voice. “Get your filthy presuming hands off of her, or next time, I’ll use this sledgehammer to do something more than poke you in the ribs.”
Thor had arrived. Lucy knew that voice, that shape, and even in the shadows, she could see he’d brought his signature fashion accessory.
Giles stood panting beside the tree. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a Norse legend, and you are the disgrace who’s about to bolt hotfoot up this path, unless you want to be the fool I put period to at dawn.”
“Go,” Lucy snapped. “I never want to see you again, and don’t think your identity is unknown to me. Thank every guardian angel you possess that you survived this encounter and stay far, far away from me in future.”
Giles hesitated one instant, while Thor shouldered his sledgehammer, then Giles did indeed take off at a dead run up the path.
His footsteps faded, though Lucy’s heart was still pounding. “Your arrival was timely, sir. Thank you.”
“I considered bringing my usual walking stick, but realized you’d have no way of identifying me if I looked like every other strolling swain. Try being inconspicuous while toting a sledgehammer. It’s impossible.”
He sounded testy, and human, but still formidable. She could not see his features clearly, but she recognized the manner in which he carried his signature accessory.
“I almost didn’t come,” Lucy said.
“I almost didn’t come either. Shall we find a quiet bench?”
Well, that was a relief. Also somewhat lowering. Lucy made sure her hood shaded her face and took Thor’s arm. He was considerate, matching his steps to hers, and giving her time to organize her thoughts. They found a bench in the shadows on a side path, and Lucy spared a moment for regret.
Thor was impressive and doubtless a lovely man, but Lucy’s heart was spoken for, even if the gentleman did not return her interest in the same way. She had respect in Lord Tyne’s house, she had love after a fashion, and friendship.
“Is this an instance when courtesy requires the gentleman to go first?” Thor asked.
“You almost decided not to come,” Lucy said, “but changed your mind, for which I am most grateful.”
“Gratitude. A fine place to start. When you came upon me at the masquerade…”
“You came upon me, sir. Rescued me from a centurion with wandering hands.”
“My name is Darien,” he said. “I see no harm in sharing that with you, for I am very much in your debt.”
Darien wasn’t the most common English name—Lord Tyne was a Darien—but neither was it a name Lucy heard every day.
“As I am in your debt, Darien.”
“If you’d like me to call that scoundrel out, I’m pleased to oblige. You said you know who he is.”
“He’s former military. Meaning no disrespect, but he might know his way around a firearm.”
“I’m former military and a dead shot, but no matter. I’m also a widower. You knew that much about me.”
Lord Tyne had served for a few years in Lower Canada. Why Lucy should recall that tidbit, she did not know, though people in love tended to hoard details about their beloved.
And she was in love, surprisingly so, though not with Thor.
“I know you lost your wife several years ago, but if you think to court me, Darien, then I fear I cannot encourage you.”
He was quiet for a moment, another quality Lucy liked about him. He didn’t chatter, didn’t need to hear his own voice. Truly, he’d make some woman a lovely spouse.
“Perhaps your affections are elsewhere engaged, as mine are. Two weeks ago, I was content to pine after a worthy young lady and ignore my own longings. You told me that I did the woman a disservice by not declaring myself, and I agree with you. When we conclude our appointment, I will focus my energies on winning her affection, but my resolve in this regard…”
Lucy waited, though he sounded very much like Lord Tyne, in his rhetoric, in his willingness to put aside his own desires to look after the needs of others, in the very timbre of his voice.
He even wore the same scent as Lord Tyne.
Oh.
Dear.
Oh, damn and drat. Of all the painful ironies… Of all the infernal injustices. Of all the heartbreaks.
“You woke me up,” he said, giving Lucy’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I was bumbling about, watching my children grow older, making brilliant, dull speeches in the Lords, and going slowly mad. Right beneath my nose is a woman whom I esteem greatly, one as ferocious as a goddess on behalf of those she loves, one who can laugh at herself and at life, one I honestly adore.”
Lucy managed to speak around the lump in her throat, for that young lady was very, very fortunate. She could not think who the lucky lady was, for Lord Tyne was discreet, and his social calendar his own.
“I’m sure you’ll make her quite happy.”
“I’m not half so confident of my success as you are.”
Hope leaped, the hope that this paragon he’d determined to court might not appreciate the gem life was handing her.
“Then the lady must be a dunderhead, sir. If she fails to appreciate you, she must be the greatest featherbrain ever to float down from on high, for I’m sure—I’m certain—that your esteem would be the most precious treasure that young lady could ever claim.”
Another silence stretched, likely relieved on his part, tortured on Lucy’s.
“Well, then,” he said. “Do I conclude that your circumstances are similar to my own? Have you determined to pursue the distant gentleman who has caught your appreciative eye?”
Must he sound so brisk, so cheerful? “You conclude correctly. I harbor little hope that he’ll ever hold me in the same regard I do him, but we respect and care for one another within the limits of our situation. I am content with that.”
Or I will learn to be. A tear trickled hotly against Lucy’s cheek. She didn’t dare raise her hand to brush it away.
“Then we can part friends and wish each other well,” his lordship said, “if you so choose, but I’d like to share with you one other aspect of my evening, before I escort you to your coach.”
Lucy nodded, all she could manage in the way of communication.
“My children accosted me as I prepared to go out for an evening at a relative’s house. They are delightful girls and blessed with the courage of their convictions. They counseled me regarding my future, in no uncertain terms, and then went giggling and conspiring on their way. I thought to be about my appointed rounds, when the children stopped me again at the foot of the stairs.”
What could the girls have been about?
“They faced a moral dilemma,” Tyne said. “Somebody about whom they care enormously had apparently made free with a possession given to me years ago. They’d seen it laid out on the lady’s bed as they’d come to my apartment to assist me with my toilette. The girls didn’t know whether to tattle, confront the thief, or hope a misunderstanding was afoot. I told them a misunderstanding was afoot.”
His voice had become painfully gentle. “I know you, Lucy Fletcher, and I know you would never, ever steal a fur-lined velvet cloak from your employer.”
Lucy Fletcher.
Mortification surged over Lucy, heating her neck and face. “I didn’t want to go to that damned masquerade, I vow this. I only went to appease a friend, and I rue… I don’t rue the decision, but I never want you to think—”
“Lucy, I know you,” he said, drawing her to her feet. “I know you are ferocious in defense of those you love. I know your integrity is bottomless. I know you have more kindness in your smallest finger than most people have in both hands. I know that if I can merely convince you to stay on as governess, then my heart and my household will be the richer for your generosity, but I also know that you kiss splendidly, and I am determined to court you.”
* * *
“Court me?”
Tyne took Lucy in his arms, though that overture required courage on his part. In the night shadows, he couldn’t tell consternation from disbelief from horror, and a man in love was capable of tremendous blunders.
“Yes, court you. I told myself as I made my way here that I could be the distant gentleman who’d caught your fancy—or it might be some other lucky soul. If I am not that man, I want to be him, Lucy. I want your kisses, your scolds, your future. I want to read fairy tales to you and live them with you, complete with the messy parts—the lost and sick children, the gossiping domestics, the ever-multiplying nieces and nephews. I’ve made enough grand speeches to last a lifetime, but this is the only speech that matters. May I court you?”
She put her arms around him as if weary. “You seek to court me, and you think I’m fierce.”
Her crown fit perfectly beneath his chin. “You have dragged me grumbling and fussing into being a proper father to my children. You have ensured I am not a stranger to my own siblings. You listen to the upper servants when they would drive me barking mad with their petty complaints, though they aren’t petty, of course. You have rescued me from becoming that worst affliction known to society, a speechifying politician. I’d be aiming for a Cabinet post…”
She bundled closer, and Tyne forgot all about Cabinets and posts, though the image of a bed popped into his head. His bed, with himself and Lucy beneath the covers.
“You are awful,” she said. “Why didn’t you simply reveal yourself after you’d run Giles off with your sledgehammer?”
“I thought that was Throckmorton. If he’s that easily routed, no wonder his children rule his roost.”
Lucy tipped her head up so the cloak fell back. Tyne could not make out her expression, but she remained in his embrace, from which familiarity, he took a certain degree of—
She kissed him, gently—an invitation to trust.
“I did not reveal myself,” he said, “because you might have chosen to content yourself with some other man. In that event, I would have encouraged you to wake the poor nodcock up with the sort of direct speech you serve to me regularly. You might have been mortified to think you’d kissed your employer by mistake—not once but twice—and I didn’t want the sweetest, loveliest kisses I’ve ever... oh hell.”
He kissed her back and found the lady was smiling. Then she got a fistful of Tyne’s hair, and then he was smiling, and then he had her up against the nearest oak tree—or she had him—and all manner of public indecencies nearly occurred, except Lucy’s feet got tangled up with the handle of the sledgehammer. She grabbed Tyne for balance, and they both ended up laughing so hard they nearly went top over teapot into the hedge.
While Lucy tried to compose herself, Tyne located his hat and the offending sledgehammer, then offered her his arm and escorted her back to the coach.
Where she promptly went off into whoops again, pausing only long enough to agree to marry him.