* * *
* * *
Lady Charlton had gone out, which meant Lucy was free to do what she liked. She finished unpacking her things—it didn’t take long: she didn’t have much. She prowled around the room, picked up a novel, put it down, picked up another one. Both were books she’d been planning to read, but that garden, so green and private, enticed her.
Who did it belong to? It was spacious and beautiful, but each time she looked, it was empty. Typical of rich people: they had all these beautiful things just for show and didn’t use them.
She crept down the stairs and slipped out into the back courtyard while Mrs. Tweed’s back was turned. There was a black wrought iron fence and gate at the end of the small courtyard. She tried it. Locked. Of course. People locked everything in London.
She peered through the railings. Nobody in the garden at all. What a waste. A big tree grew just inside the garden, with one large branch hanging over the fence. She eyed it thoughtfully.
She never had been one for following the rules, and who cared anyway? If the owners of this gorgeous garden weren’t using it . . .
A small, round wrought iron table stood in the corner of the courtyard. She dragged it to the fence, climbed onto it, tucked up the skirts of the horrid orange dress, and used the branch to swing herself over the fence. She dropped to the ground, grinning. She was in.
She walked the paths carefully, keeping an eye out for an owner, or an angry gardener, but there was not a soul, only the birds and a red squirrel that eyed her cheekily before bounding up an oak.
Time disappeared as she explored, lost in a new world, until a few heavy drops of rain startled her back to awareness. The clouds overhead loomed thick and slaty: this wasn’t a quick shower then. Bother.
She ran to the pretty little glass building and tried the door, but it was locked. The rain grew heavier. Her wet skirts clung to her, cold and clammy against her legs.
She tried to shelter under a big tree, but lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, and she recalled something about how lightning was attracted to trees.
She returned to the tree that overhung Lady Charlton’s courtyard, but it was wet, and the trunk was too slippery to climb, and she had nothing to climb on to reach the branch. Feeling like a fool, she nerved herself to call out. “Mrs. Tweed? Tweed? Is anyone there?”
Eventually Mrs. Tweed poked her head out the back door and, exclaiming distressfully, she hurried out with a large key. Tweed followed with a big black umbrella.
Mrs. Tweed unlocked the gate, clucking over Lucy like a mother hen. “Oh, my dear, however did you get locked out? Look at you—you’re soaked to the skin. Come in, come in. Tweed, fetch hot water for the young lady’s bath. She’ll take it in the kitchen, where it’s warm and toasty.”
Lucy stared as Tweed relocked the gate and hung the big iron key just inside the back door. There was a key. Why hadn’t she asked?
“I don’t need—” she began.
But she was shivering, and Mary, the maid, said, “You’ll have a nice hot bath, miss, and no arguing. Lady Charlton would never forgive us if we let you catch a chill.”
Lady Charlton would probably be delighted if she died of pneumonia, Lucy thought. She didn’t want Lucy living with her, just as Lucy didn’t want to be here.
Tweed placed an enamel bathtub in front of the fire and filled it with steaming water. Mrs. Tweed and Mary then shooed him out and turned to help Lucy undress. Lucy stepped away, wrapping her arms around herself.
“No need to be shy, miss. We’re all women here.”
But it wasn’t shyness or modesty that stopped her; it was shame. As usual, Papa had only concerned himself with the appearance of things. The ugly orange dress might look expensive, but her underwear was a disgrace: worn, patched and repatched, barely even suitable for cleaning rags.
Oh well, she supposed, no use putting off the moment. They’d soon realize. Nothing was secret from servants.
She turned her back, stripped off her dress and then her underwear, and stepped into the bath.
Lucy could practically hear the silent looks Mary and Mrs. Tweed must be exchanging, but there was nothing she could do. Finally Mary said, “I’ll see what I can do with this dress. I just hope it hasn’t shrunk.” Lucy hoped it had.
After her bath, Lucy wrapped herself in the large, toasty-warm towels Mrs. Tweed had heated for her and, with a muttered thanks, hurried upstairs to her bedchamber.
Ten minutes later Mary knocked on her door. “Mrs. Tweed sent this up for you, miss.” She brought in a tray containing a large cup of hot chocolate and a slice of Dundee cake and placed it on the dressing table.
Lucy’s cheeks were hot. “Thank you, Mary.”
The whole episode had been an exercise in mortification. And kindness.
* * *
* * *
Evening fell and hunger was beginning to rumble in Gerald’s belly. But where to dine? The landlady of his bachelor suite provided an excellent breakfast, but that was all. He had a number of friends he could call on who’d be happy to join him for dinner, but truth to tell, he was becoming a little weary of the company of young men his own age. They were all too often . . . callow. Fine for a frivolous evening out, but right now he was not in that sort of mood.
Particularly since he’d lost the race by a whisker. Brexton would be crowing about it all over London. Brexton was not a gracious winner.
Gerald was a member of White’s, but so was his father and his father’s friends, and in their company he was the one who felt callow. The way his father spoke to him—especially in front of his friends—as if Gerald knew nothing and understood less—it grated. Anyone would think him a schoolboy, not a man back from years commanding troops at war.
So his preference tonight was for the Apocalypse Club, a club formed specifically for officers returned from war. He headed for St. James.
He entered the club and, to his surprise, spied a tall, dark-haired man he hadn’t seen since Waterloo. “Colonel Tarrant, well met.”
Of all the men Gerald might have run into, Tarrant was the most welcome. He’d been Gerald’s commanding officer, a fine leader and, despite the gulf between a colonel and a captain, a friend.
The tall man rose and held out his hand with a welcoming grin. “Paton. Good to see you. Join me for a drink before dinner?” They settled back in comfortable leather armchairs and prepared to catch up.
“I thought you were still on the continent, colonel. How long are you back for?”
“For good, I hope,” Tarrant said. “And I’m a colonel no longer. I’ve sold my commission and am returning to civilian life.” He added gruffly, “And it’s Lord Tarrant now.”