of but never met. Alarmed at her thoughts, Lucy tried to shift away from him. Her other hand cradled Wellington, and so she could only tug at Nick’s grip to try and free herself. He refused to release her, though, his strong fingers entwining with hers.
“Woof, woof,” Mr. Whippet barked, and Lucy could tell he was enjoying the odd encounter. Wellington stirred in his sleep at the sound. When the Reverend Mr. Whippet actually howled, neither she nor the gardener could restrain themselves, and only by squeezing Nick’s hand with all her might could Lucy keep her laughter from escaping. Their shared mirth warmed her as much as his touch.
“Drat that Henny.” Nick’s sotto voce words barely reached her ears. “I’ll see if there’s another way out. I’d not be surprised if there was.”
She refused to feel disappointed when he released her hand. With slow, deliberate movements, he turned and reached past her while the vicar’s howling continued. A moment later, Lucy felt the brush of air against her neck.
Nick didn’t say anything, just slid around her, and she knew she was meant to follow him. He took Wellington while she struggled against the restrictions of her heavy, wet skirts to clamber after him.
She emerged from the wardrobe into a larger space that was equally as dark.
“Here,” Nick said, the word echoing in the emptiness. She wondered if the blackness bothered him, for his voice cracked slightly. “Thank God I’ve found a door.”
She heard a handle turn, and a sliver of light appeared. Perhaps this man had his uses after all. Lucy blinked as she followed Nick into the next room.
Where the first chamber had been one of horrors, this one was the stuff of dreams. Light, gauzy fabrics were draped everywhere, as if by an angel’s hand, and the bed on the raised dais looked like the bower of a fairy queen. Each tabletop held a vase of fresh flowers, and in the corner, a pretty screen depicted cherubs frolicking in a garden. The room was fit for a princess, and its beauty took Lucy’s breath away.
Nick crossed to the other door of the chamber and quickly turned the key in the lock.
“That didn’t keep Henny out of the last room,” she said. He was far too appealing, and she needed to distance herself.
“Henny has special skills, a product of her childhood in Seven Dials,” he said with a wink, one conspirator to another, and she flushed. “I doubt many of the other young women at Madame St. Cloud’s are as proficient at picking locks. Besides, I imagine Henny thinks us still in the wardrobe listening to Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy was surprised that he knew the vicar. “You are acquainted with the man?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she’d made a mistake. The gardener’s handsome features showed no curiosity, but the sudden tension in his body betrayed his interest in her response.
“I know who he is. Perhaps you do as well?”
Lucy feigned nonchalance, afraid she’d tipped her hand, and turned to examine several gilt-framed paintings on the wall. “Mr. Whippet is vicar of the Charming parish. He is a frequent visitor in the duchess’s drawing room.”
The gardener stepped away from the door and approached her, his expression ominous, but Lucy held her ground. “Has he . . . bothered you?”
The hard line of the gardener’s jaw almost proved Lucy’s undoing. Oh, heavens, he cared that the repulsive vicar might have taken liberties with her. Drat all gardeners, especially the brown-eyed ones! She must put a stop to this silly attraction.
“The Reverend Mr. Whippet may cast me all manner of looks,” Lucy hedged, “but he will never lay one finger upon my person.”
“Indeed, he will not,” Nick agreed, and Lucy forced herself to ignore the pleasure his words caused to dance along her skin.
“You didn’t need to rescue me.” She should divert him from his preoccupation with Mr. Whippet, for such thoughts might lead him to her identity. “In fact,
“Woof, woof,” Mr. Whippet barked, and Lucy could tell he was enjoying the odd encounter. Wellington stirred in his sleep at the sound. When the Reverend Mr. Whippet actually howled, neither she nor the gardener could restrain themselves, and only by squeezing Nick’s hand with all her might could Lucy keep her laughter from escaping. Their shared mirth warmed her as much as his touch.
“Drat that Henny.” Nick’s sotto voce words barely reached her ears. “I’ll see if there’s another way out. I’d not be surprised if there was.”
She refused to feel disappointed when he released her hand. With slow, deliberate movements, he turned and reached past her while the vicar’s howling continued. A moment later, Lucy felt the brush of air against her neck.
Nick didn’t say anything, just slid around her, and she knew she was meant to follow him. He took Wellington while she struggled against the restrictions of her heavy, wet skirts to clamber after him.
She emerged from the wardrobe into a larger space that was equally as dark.
“Here,” Nick said, the word echoing in the emptiness. She wondered if the blackness bothered him, for his voice cracked slightly. “Thank God I’ve found a door.”
She heard a handle turn, and a sliver of light appeared. Perhaps this man had his uses after all. Lucy blinked as she followed Nick into the next room.
Where the first chamber had been one of horrors, this one was the stuff of dreams. Light, gauzy fabrics were draped everywhere, as if by an angel’s hand, and the bed on the raised dais looked like the bower of a fairy queen. Each tabletop held a vase of fresh flowers, and in the corner, a pretty screen depicted cherubs frolicking in a garden. The room was fit for a princess, and its beauty took Lucy’s breath away.
Nick crossed to the other door of the chamber and quickly turned the key in the lock.
“That didn’t keep Henny out of the last room,” she said. He was far too appealing, and she needed to distance herself.
“Henny has special skills, a product of her childhood in Seven Dials,” he said with a wink, one conspirator to another, and she flushed. “I doubt many of the other young women at Madame St. Cloud’s are as proficient at picking locks. Besides, I imagine Henny thinks us still in the wardrobe listening to Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy was surprised that he knew the vicar. “You are acquainted with the man?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she’d made a mistake. The gardener’s handsome features showed no curiosity, but the sudden tension in his body betrayed his interest in her response.
“I know who he is. Perhaps you do as well?”
Lucy feigned nonchalance, afraid she’d tipped her hand, and turned to examine several gilt-framed paintings on the wall. “Mr. Whippet is vicar of the Charming parish. He is a frequent visitor in the duchess’s drawing room.”
The gardener stepped away from the door and approached her, his expression ominous, but Lucy held her ground. “Has he . . . bothered you?”
The hard line of the gardener’s jaw almost proved Lucy’s undoing. Oh, heavens, he cared that the repulsive vicar might have taken liberties with her. Drat all gardeners, especially the brown-eyed ones! She must put a stop to this silly attraction.
“The Reverend Mr. Whippet may cast me all manner of looks,” Lucy hedged, “but he will never lay one finger upon my person.”
“Indeed, he will not,” Nick agreed, and Lucy forced herself to ignore the pleasure his words caused to dance along her skin.
“You didn’t need to rescue me.” She should divert him from his preoccupation with Mr. Whippet, for such thoughts might lead him to her identity. “In fact,
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