Cambourne said nothing and she fought to ignore his presence. One hundred pounds. Papa had won five times as much a few weeks ago. He’d let her have some money that time. Enough to buy food, the beeswax and pay off the arrears on their lodgings. Otherwise Mrs Beattie would have kicked them out. There was nothing left of what he’d given her. And with what she could earn, she would be lucky to have enough to eat for a week if she ate one meal a day, and only then if Mrs Beattie didn’t insist on being paid again next week.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said again. Folly to keep repeating it. Either Lord Cambourne believed her, or he did not. There was nothing she could do about it.
He was watching her. Those dark-grey eyes seemed to look right through her and see things she preferred to keep hidden. She lifted her chin, praying that the choking fear was not apparent. Praying that he would leave so that she could think.
‘You should leave.’ Pretending that Mr Remington, or Lord Cambourne, or whatever he wished to call himself, was a welcome visitor was beyond her.
* * *
James hesitated. There was no reason to linger. Any more than there had been reason to stay this long. And yet he didn’t want to go. Lucy Hensleigh, or whatever she called herself, bothered him. The idea of her going out alone, performing in the street for pennies, didn’t exactly shock him; that twisting in his gut wasn’t shock. Oh, there was shock all right. But it was shock at how he was feeling about her. How he felt about her being here alone, her father having seemingly abandoned her. And shock at the feel of her slender body in his arms a few moments ago. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.
Hell’s teeth! If a debt of one hundred pounds had rattled her that badly, how would she have taken the truth? Or that his intention was to sell the debt on?
It wasn’t James’s responsibility. He’d bought coal so she’d have some warmth. She had food. And he was due at a late supper back in St James’s, after which he had a ball to attend. Not that it would matter overly if he were late... Damn it to hell and back! How safe was she here?
‘Beyond the man who followed him home, your father’s friends don’t call?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Relief breathed through him. He hoped it would stay that way.
‘And you’ve really no idea when he will return?’
The soft mouth turned mulish ‘No. There’s no point asking again. You either believe me or you don’t. He’s disappeared before. Never for more than a few days.’
The roof creaked loudly and she jumped.
‘Miss Hensleigh, are you sure you don’t mind being here alone?’ James asked gently. He couldn’t blame her for being nervous. And what can you do about it? Offer to remain with her?
‘I’m not alone,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re here. And I don’t like it!’
James clenched his fists. He was making her nervous? He let out a breath. He couldn’t blame her for that. Reluctantly, he walked to the door. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re actually leaving?’
‘Yes. Bolt the door behind me.’
She rose, graceful even in her shabby gown with a threadbare blanket around her. ‘I always do at night.’
‘Good.’ The door wasn’t strong enough to keep anyone out who really wanted to get in, but at least the noise would warn her.
James opened the door, turned and held out his hand to her. ‘Goodnight.’
After a moment’s hesitation she placed her hand in his, slowly, as if she doubted the wisdom of doing so. His fingers closed over hers gently, he felt them quiver, heard the soft intake of breath as his clasp tightened. Such a small hand and so cold in his. A steel band seemed to clamp about his chest as startled green eyes met his, her lips parted slightly, and he fought the shocking urge to lean forward and taste them, find out if they would tremble in response.
Heat licked through him at the thought, but instead he covered her hand with his other one. ‘Promise me that you’ll sit by the fire long enough to warm up properly.’ The thought of her cold and so alone haunted him. She ought not to be left alone, but he couldn’t stay. Didn’t dare. Damn her father to hell for leaving her like this.
Her chin lifted, revealing the slender column of her throat. ‘Do you think I can’t look after myself?’
He doubted it. Not if some bastard decided to help himself. He ignored the urge to behave like one of the aforementioned bastards and trace the ivory line of her throat with one finger, discover the swift pulse beating beneath silk-soft skin... His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I think that you shouldn’t have to,’ he said at last. Wanting her was bad enough, the warring urge to look after her, keep her safe even from himself, make sure she was never cold or hungry ever again, was more than foolish—it ranked close to insanity. There was no point elaborating on the dangers; those wary eyes told him that she knew them already, recognised him as one of them. And if she considered him a danger she was not interested in becoming his mistress. She had not even tried to influence him or buy him off with a little flirtation, or by making play with wet lashes over her father’s debt. He had to respect that.
Reluctantly, he released her hand and stepped back. ‘Bolt the door behind me,’ he repeated. Somehow he got the door open and shut with himself outside it before his resolution failed. He waited, heard the squeak and thud as she shot the bolt with what sounded like unwonted vigour.
His brows rose. ‘Goodnight to you, too, Miss Hensleigh.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Stiff, reluctant. Rather as if she would have preferred to consign him to Hades.
Lucy listened to the steady steps and accompanying creaks as he crossed the landing. Heard him descend the stairs and heaved a sigh of what ought to have been relief, and felt frighteningly like regret. Shivering, she lifted the hand he had held to her breast. The strong pressure of his fingers, the enveloping warmth, lingered. He had held her hand as if he cared about her.
He held your hand for a moment in farewell. It meant nothing. Less than nothing to him.
He was gone. So why did the bright edge of tension still score her? Why did it matter that he had held her hand? Worse, why did she wish he was still holding it? She’d been wrong about his motive for waiting; he wanted Papa, not her. Lord! He’d been insulted at the very suggestion. And yet he’d held her hand in that odd way. Tenderly. As if he hadn’t wanted to let her go.
He was kind, that was all. Buying fuel, lighting the fire.
Why? Papa owes him a small fortune.
Suspicious cynicism was not one of her more attractive traits, but she couldn’t afford naivety. In the last four years she’d learned to be wary of seeming kindness. People, especially men, wanted something in return. She’d learnt very quickly what men usually wanted from a girl—something that meant less than nothing
