Chapter Four

MAKE WAY—COMIN’ THROUGH!”

Blinded by a tower of boxes, Beaton barreled through the doorway and crashed directly into Jack. The impact had little effect on Jack other than to further irritate him. Poor Beaton, however, fell unceremoniously on his backside while trying to shield himself from a shower of gaily colored packages.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped. “Them boxes is sharp!”

“Beaton, quit your dawdling and bring them new things up here,” ordered Lizzie impatiently from the top of the staircase. “Oh, hello, Mr. Jack,” she added, seeing Jack staring at her in astonishment. “Pardon the mess, we wasn’t expectin’ you home quite so soon—here now, what’s happened to you? You look as if you’ve been slatherin’ grease in the shipyards!”

“What the devil is going on here, Lizzie?” Jack demanded.

“Me and Beaton are tryin’ to fix up Miss Belford with a nice new wardrobe, just like you said.” Looking frazzled, Lizzie scooped up four more gowns, two velvet cloaks and a beaded shawl that were draped carelessly upon the banister and disappeared back into Amelia’s bedroom.

“Looks more like ye’re fixin’ her up with ten new wardrobes,” chortled Oliver, eyeing the boxes and parcels strewn throughout the entrance hall, library, and dining room of the main floor.

Most of the packages were open, revealing what Jack felt certain was enough feminine attire to clothe the entire city of London. Expensive gowns, cloaks, and crinolines were haphazardly draped over chairs and doorways, while the floors were choked with elegantly fashioned shoes, boots, gloves and reticules in every shade of leather, silk, satin and linen imaginable.

“I told you to get Miss Belford a wardrobe?” he demanded, turning to Beaton.

“Well, of course you did.” Beaton pulled himself awkwardly up from the scattered packages. “Miss Belford told us so. She said you didn’t want her goin’ off to meet her betrothed in rags, and as there was nothing suitable in Lady Redmond’s wardrobe, she asked me and Lizzie to go out and collect a few things for her. She made a list and told us which shops to visit, so as to be sure to bring back things to her likin’.” He fished a crumpled ball of paper from his coat pocket with a long list written in delicate handwriting upon it. “I’ve been driving back and forth all day, pickin’ things up and takin’ things back.”

“And just how, exactly, did you pay for them?”

“Why, I put them on your account, just like Miss Belford told me to.” Beaton fumbled through his pockets and produced a half dozen more wrinkled slips of paper. “There’s a few receipts there, and of course there’s more in the boxes, and Lizzie’s got a stack of them upstairs in Miss Belford’s room. You needn’t worry though,” he quickly added as Jack’s eyes widened at the exorbitant sums at the bottom of each bill. “I told the shopkeepers the items were for Lady Redmond, so they wouldn’t be suspicious.” He gave Jack a conspiratorial wink.

“Canna imagine Miss Genevieve ever buyin’ a houseful of clothes like this,” mused Oliver, gazing around at the explosion of garments. “Once ye’ve learned to measure every purchase by how many meals ye might have made from it, ye can nae spend on somethin’ fine without feelin’ a wee bit o’ guilt first.”

“Genevieve would never buy all these clothes—first because she would be incensed by their excessiveness, and second because she and Haydon couldn’t bloody well afford them.” Jack stalked angrily up the stairs, nearly tripping over the waterfall of boxes as he went.

“This one won’t do either, I’m afraid.” Amelia frowned at the gown she was holding up to the mirror. “The sleeves are too tight, the hem is too long, and these tiers of roses are entirely too large. Also, it is far too bright a pink; I’m afraid my complexion calls for a rosier shade.” She tossed the offending garment onto the enormous pile of equally objectionable fashions upon the bed, then went to take the next gown Lizzie held out to her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Belford.” Jack fought to remain calm as he scanned the litter of expensive garments scattered about the room. “I see you’ve had no trouble keeping yourself occupied during my absence.”

“Oh, thank goodness you’re back!” Amelia cried, rushing toward him.

She was clad only in a dressing gown of pale peach silk, which was loosely cinched about her tiny waist and gaping just enough to reveal a hint of creamy bosom and the ivory corset laced tight beneath it. Her pale blond hair had been pinned into a loose arrangement atop her head, but the exertion of trying on dozens of gowns had left numerous tendrils dangling in wispy spirals around her face, giving her a charmingly disheveled look. She wore stockings but no shoes, despite the fact that there must have been over a hundred pairs in the house, and Jack found her unadorned little feet strangely entrancing as they peeked out from the hem of her robe.

“I was worried when I awakened and realized you were gone,” Amelia confessed softly. “I didn’t know whether you would come back.”

He stared at her in bewilderment. Had she honestly believed that he would simply abandon her? The delicate scent of her was flooding his senses, a light fragrance of sunlight and soap touched with a hint of orange and some tangy clean flower he could not identify. The violet shadows beneath her eyes had faded slightly, and the dozens of scratches on her hands looked less raw. Her spirit was clearly stronger than it had been the previous night when he had found her lying curled upon the bed with tears sparkling upon her lashes. And yet there was an aching vulnerability to her, which pierced his anger with the efficacy of an arrow.

“Did you find Percy?”

Disappointment sliced through him.

“Yes.” His tone was unaccountably brusque.

“I knew you would!” she exclaimed, ecstatic. She reached out as if she meant to hug him, then frowned. “Why are you dressed like that—and how did you get so dirty?”

“I thought it best that your precious Percy not know who I was.”

“Why not?”

“I take it, Miss Belford, that you have not read today’s newspaper.”

“I’ve been much too busy to read the paper.” Amelia gestured in frustration at the heaps of garments strewn around her. “I’ve been trying to put together an adequate wardrobe for myself since early this morning, and I’m afraid it has not been easy.”

“So I see. And just how, may I ask, do you expect to pay for all of this?”

“Is that what has made you so angry?” She looked genuinely taken aback. “The fact that I sent out for a few outfits?”

“This is not a few outfits,” Jack observed tautly. “This is the annual production of some two hundred or more seamstresses, hatters, leather-goods manufacturers, and cobblers, which could easily outfit the entire city of London for the next five years!”

“I’ll just be seein’ what’s happened to Beaton.” Lizzie hastily snatched up a few discarded gowns and bustled out the door.

Amelia’s gaze remained riveted on Jack, but the color of her eyes had cooled, like the ocean darkening before a storm. “I had nothing to wear.” Her voice was deliberately measured, making it clear he did not intimidate her in the least. “I could scarcely present myself to my betrothed in rags, wearing a ruined wedding gown that was designed for my marriage to another man. Did you expect me to go to Viscount Philmore looking like this?” She skimmed the tips of her fingers over the loose dressing gown she wore, which was now tantalizingly close to falling open.

The idea of her idiot viscount, or any other man for that matter, seeing her in her current state of undress only inflamed Jack’s anger.

“I told you that you could help yourself to any of my mother’s clothes,” he returned evenly. “Surely there were enough outfits there from which you could choose that you did not have to empty every shop in London in your quest to find a suitable gown.”

“Lady Redmond and I are not the same size,” Amelia pointed out, “and her wardrobe is not—”

“Not what?” Jack interrupted. “Expensive enough to suit a spoiled American heiress, because most of the clothes have been designed by my sister instead of some pretentious French fool, and sewn in a modest little shop in Inverness instead of in some salon in Paris?”

“No, Mr. Kent.” Amelia tilted her head up so she could meet his glare with her own. “Your mother has excellent taste, and your sister is obviously a very talented designer. I could not wear her clothes because they did not fit. As for the cost of my wardrobe, I assure you that I intend to pay for it myself. As soon as I am reunited with Lord Philmore, I will make certain you are generously compensated for all the trouble you have gone to on my behalf. My Percy is a gentleman, and would never permit either a kindness or a debt to go unpaid.”

“You’re wrong,” Jack snarled, infuriated by the veiled inference that he was somehow less of a gentleman than her simpering little betrothed. “Your precious Percy is bloody well up to his eyeballs in debt, and would gladly let anyone pay them on his behalf—even a naive young girl who is nothing more to him than a quick and easy way to flood his bank account with money he could never have dreamed of getting his hands on otherwise, short of gambling for it, which he does rather badly, or stealing it.”

“How dare you!” Amelia balled up her fists as if she meant to strike him. “First of all, Mr. Kent, I am not the naive young girl you seem to think I am, and secondly, Percy doesn’t care about money—and neither do I!”

“That’s because you have never known what it is not to have any.”

“And neither, apparently, have you!” she retaliated, sweeping her arms around the elegantly appointed bedchamber.

Jack stared at her in surprise. She didn’t know about him, he realized. Didn’t know about his childhood, which forever branded him as a filthy, ignorant thief, no matter how hard he tried to wrest himself above the stench and the squalor. She had no concept of the things he had been forced to do to survive—of the brutal beatings he had endured and later inflicted, of the stealing and lies, of the constant need to fight for food and clothing and shelter, all while desperately scrambling to keep from being killed and out of jail.

She didn’t know anything about him at all.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, feeling as if he had momentarily lost his bearings. He raked his hand through his hair, feeling hopelessly ill-equipped to handle the situation. “Sometimes I say things without thinking.” He shrugged helplessly.

Amelia frowned, studying him. She was not terribly familiar with the garb of the lower-class people in London, but she was amazed at how convincing Jack looked in his shabby coat and trousers. Most men she knew would have appeared ridiculously out of place in the coarse, poorly sewn attire. Certainly Percy was too finely boned and softly fleshed to ever play the part of a man who earned his living through physical exertion.

With his powerful frame straining against the poorly tailored shirt and coat and his rough-cut jaw smeared with grime, Jack Kent seemed every inch the contemptuous laborer he was pretending to be. His hands were huge and bronzed by the sun, the calluses upon his palms making it clear he was a man well accustomed to hard physical labor. His eyes were filled with scorn as he spoke of her betrothed, and she sensed that it was not just Percy whom he despised, but all those of his class. This was bewildering, given that her host was obviously accustomed to a life of privilege. She continued to stare at him, intrigued by the paradox of his emotions, and the lengths to which he had gone to ensure that Percy would not learn of his identity. She suspected Jack had done this to protect her, although she believed his efforts to be misguided, Percy would never permit her to come to harm. But there was a constant wariness to the man standing before her, a cool distrust that shadowed the hard gray of his eyes. Her gaze fell upon the thin white scar snaking along his left cheek. Somehow that pale streak touched a chord within her. She found herself wanting to touch him, to lay her hand upon his cheek and feel its roughness beneath her palm, to soothe his anger and contempt with the coolness of her fingers, and know the pulsing heat of him against her skin.

She turned away abruptly, self-consciously tightening the sash of her robe.

“What did you mean when you asked if I had read today’s paper?” she asked stiffly.

Jack hesitated. It would be painful for her to hear, he realized. “Viscount Philmore has found himself another bride. This morning’s paper announced his engagement to a Miss Edith Fanshaw.”

She whirled about, her expression outraged. “You are mistaken.” Her voice was brittle.

“I can send Beaton out to buy a copy of the Morning Post if you doubt me. The members of the Marbury Club were discussing the news when I went there. They were under the impression that Philmore is suffering from severe financial strain, and that his engagement to Miss Fanshaw comes at a most opportune time. It seems she is also an heiress from America.”

“I know Edith Fanshaw,” Amelia informed him in a tight voice. “Her father is Arthur Fanshaw of Baltimore, and although he has some holdings of import in Chicago real estate, the Fanshaws do not possess any great wealth.”

“Evidently they possess enough to make a marriage to their daughter palatable,” Jack observed. “Philmore has agreed to marry her.”

“He cannot be doing it of his own free will,” Amelia decided. “Something has happened—some dreadful calamity has forced him to do this.”

“He’s doing it because he hasn’t got any money, and when he marries Miss Fanshaw that little problem will be instantly solved.”

“I don’t believe that Percy hasn’t any money, but even if he doesn’t, I don’t care. He loves me, and I love him. Once he knows that I have run away from Lord Whitcliffe to be with him, he will break his betrothal to Miss Fanshaw and marry me instead.”

“I think you should be prepared for the possibility that he may not be quite so willing to give her up. After all, Miss Belford, at the moment you are an heiress without means, having run away from your marriage and estranged yourself from your family’s considerable fortune.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “Tell me, Mr. Kent, do you believe no man could possibly want me just for the woman I am?”

“No—”

“Then kindly refrain from insulting me by questioning Lord Philmore’s motives for wanting to marry me. Did you actually meet with him, or did you merely listen to idle gossip being bandied about by his associates at the Marbury Club?”

“I met with him,” Jack replied. “He gave me this note for you.” He produced Lord Philmore’s envelope from inside his coat and handed it to her.

“I knew it!” she cried, freshly elated as she read the card within. “He says he is counting the moments until we are to be reunited. I am to meet him at the Wilkinsons’ ball tonight, at precisely nine o’clock. There he will declare his intention to marry me before the hundreds of guests in attendance, and shall make arrangements for our marriage shortly thereafter.”

Jack stared at her incredulously. “Why in the name of God would he put you in such a public place when all of England is looking for you?”

“It’s very clever, don’t you see? My parents will not want to endure any further scandal by trying to stop a marriage that has been formally announced in a public setting. It’s brilliant.”

“It’s madness,” Jack countered furiously. “You may be interested to learn, Miss Belford, that there is a ten-thousand-pound reward being offered for any information leading to your being found. That means anyone at that ball could grab you and claim that reward—or, if they prefer a less sensational route to your father’s wealth, they could merely contact the authorities and let them know where you are.”

“Percy would never let that happen.”

“Percy wouldn’t have any goddamn choice,” Jack snapped. “Only a fool would let you walk in there alone. You’re not going.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Kent, but I was not aware that you were my keeper.”

“I’m not your bloody keeper, but I am your—” He stopped, unsure how to finish.

“I asked you to help me get to London and find Viscount Philmore, and I am indebted to you for having done both,” Amelia assured him. “I do not, however, expect you to dictate to me how or where I am to reunite with him. Percy believes this is the best way for us to make our intentions public. If he suspected there was any risk involved, he would never suggest it.”

“He may not have thought the matter through.” Either that or Lord Philmore was a goddamn idiot, which was entirely possible. “Or he may not be aware of the reward. Either way, Miss Belford, I’m asking you to trust me.” He moved closer to her, narrowing the gulf between them. “Stay here tonight, and let me go to the ball and meet with Lord Philmore instead. I will make him understand the ball is not safe for you, and arrange another meeting for tomorrow night. If he cares about you as much as you claim, he won’t mind a delay of one day. If anything, he will appreciate my concern.”

Amelia wanted to say no, to tell him that she refused to be separated from her Percy even a day longer, for every moment was like torture to two tragically separated lovers. But something in the powerful intensity of Jack’s gaze made her pause. Somehow she did not think he would be moved by her declarations of love. Jack Kent did not strike her as a man who had ever known what it was to surrender himself to that glorious emotion. He would also not share her confidence that Percy would do everything within his means to see that she was safe. Jack had already made it abundantly clear that he despised Lord Philmore, although she didn’t understand why. All she knew was that he believed he was protecting her, while she was quite certain she needed no such protection.

He was staring at her intently, waiting for her response. It confused her that the man who had so reluctantly spirited her away from her own wedding now felt that he held some sort of responsibility for her. She certainly didn’t want Mr. Kent to think she was ungrateful for all that he had done for her. But she also didn’t want to be separated from Percy even a moment longer—not when he was so close and their life together was finally about to begin.

“Very well, Mr. Kent,” she said. “I will remain here while you make alternate arrangements for our reconciliation. Will that satisfy you?”

Jack regarded her warily. “Yes.”

“Now if you will excuse me, I still have a number of outfits to try on before I send Beaton to return the clothes I will not be keeping.” She scooped up an elaborate gown of amethyst silk and a delicate pair of matching evening shoes.

Jack’s jaw tightened as she raised the gown to her shoulders and turned to study herself in the mirror. Should Lord Philmore decide to break his betrothal to Miss Fanshaw, he would not be in any position to pay for the extravagant clothes to which Miss Belford was evidently accustomed. Somehow Jack forced himself to turn away from her, denying himself the pleasure of her loveliness as she cast the gown aside and rifled through the mound on the bed, searching for another.

If Miss Belford’s precious viscount did decide to marry her, then she would learn the harsh reality of Philmore’s finances and sexual preferences soon enough.