In Debt To The Earl. Elizabeth Rolls
in, the floor is clean enough.’ For heaven’s sake! She’d swept and scrubbed yesterday. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as, saying nothing, he put the loaf on the table.
She set the violin down and scooped her supper of jellied eels back into its bag.
‘I’m sorry.’
At the sound of his deep voice, she nearly dropped the eels again.
‘What?’
‘Is it so hard to believe I’d apologise for startling you into dropping your supper?’ A shade of annoyance crept into his voice.
She looked up. ‘Oh.’
‘Although,’ he went on, picking up the cheese, ‘I’m damned if I know why you thought you needed to scream afterwards. You know why I’m here.’
‘Do I?’ she asked. ‘You sneak back here and wait for me in the dark, despite the fact that my father obviously hasn’t returned, and wonder why I think I might need to scream?’
Even in the bad light she saw two spots of scarlet spring to his cheeks as he stared at her. For a moment he said nothing. Then, ‘That, Miss Hensleigh, is insulting. You thought I’d assault you?’
‘The possibility occurred to me,’ she said, refusing to back down, even though his outrage was obvious and she was fairly sure she’d been mistaken. But something niggled at her. If she was mistaken, then why had he come back? ‘It’s not as though I know you at all,’ she pointed out. ‘Let alone well enough to judge your character!’ And given the foolish attraction she seemed to have for him, it was doubly important to be on her guard. Why had he come back?
* * *
James reined in his anger, forced himself to see her side. She had come home to find a near-stranger waiting in the dark. And it wasn’t as if he had a particularly good reason for waiting. He gritted his teeth. She wasn’t to know that while he might seduce a willing woman, he certainly wouldn’t assault or force one.
‘I apologise.’ That made two apologies inside of five minutes. ‘So your father hasn’t returned?’
‘No.’
He waited, but she said nothing more, merely got a dish from a shelf and the—what was that mess in the bag?—jellied eels on the table and put them with the bread and cheese he’d salvaged. The plate rattled a little as she set it down and he looked closely.
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