“I’m not lonely,” Millie lied. “I have Jakub.”
“Inn’t right that the boy ’as no father. And in no time, ’e’ll grow up and ’ave a family of ’is own. And then where will you be?”
Millie turned away from Mrs. Brimtree, the conversation making her feel more exposed than taking off her clothing. “Trust me, it’s better this way.” Jakub needed more protection than most boys, all because of his mother’s terrible secret.
“But—”
“Good night, Beatrice,” Millie said firmly. “Please don’t forget to give my love to George.”
A quiet moment ticked by, then Millie moved to the tub.
“Yes, mum.”
Millie waited for the door to click before she stepped over the rim of the copper tub and sank into its depths with a breathy sigh. Bowing to her public on that stage, she’d thought nothing could cast a pall on this brilliant night. The most wonderful and affirming of her life thus far.
She’d been wrong.
Beatrice only called her “mum” when she was displeased about something. The woman thought she was giving kind advice, but she didn’t know how dangerous the world was out there for her and Jakub. That allowing just any man into her life would shatter the safety and comfort that she’d created for them.
Jakub deserved to be safe and grow up without fear. He deserved the best she could give him. Better than her parents and brothers had done for her. Better than the rakes and noblemen who chased her skirts, but not her heart.
And better than Bentley Drummle.
Damn it. How was it that he wormed his way into her thoughts every ten seconds? It was the paradox of his face. Had to be. Warm skin, fair and yet darker than his red hair and eyes warranted. Like he’d lived in sunnier climes. There were other contradictions she’d experienced firsthand A hot tongue. Cold eyes. Rough hands. Gentle fingers. Hard mouth. Soft lips.
Millie cursed, splashed the water, and cursed again, this time in Polish.
Forget about men. She had a career to build. A son to raise. And for now, for him, she’d just have to content herself with her onstage heroes, because she knew that Mrs. Brimtree was right about one thing.
They did not exist out here in the real world.
* * *
Christopher Argent’s hands ached with cold. He’d scaled a wrought-iron gate and climbed the stone stanchion to the lower ledge of Millie LeCour’s apartments. His fitted waistcoat had hindered his reach, so he’d abandoned it, leaving it hanging from one of the many tall iron points of the gate. The wind snaked through the narrow corridor of Drury Lane and stung his flesh through his shirtsleeves like the lash of a whip. In fact, the similarities of the pain were uncanny. Except, he supposed, a whip was a more localized pain, and the chill of the wind could be felt over his entire flesh. Regardless, the residual burn was remarkably comparable in both cases.
The empty street had an apocalyptic quietude that appealed to him. A cold like this, one that left crystalline swirls of frost over the whole of the city, drove even the stoutest of night stalkers and criminals indoors.
Argent was used to the cold. Was born to it and honed from it. He only had to worry about it when it affected his physical performance.
Like now, when he could sense the joints in his hands stiffening with each passing moment. Galvanized, he judged the length of distance to the second story with a few hurried calculations, and crouched to leap.
The coarse brick of the ledge bit into his fingertips, but he ground his teeth together and used all the honed strength in his arms and back to pull his chin above the ledge. Once his upper body was secure, he checked to see that no one was looking out of the window toward the street.
The soft glow of a lantern pierced the night, but from his precarious vantage, he could tell he wasn’t in danger of being detected as a Japanese screen protected the window from view even though the drapes were open.
With a grunt, he swung his leg up and found purchase enough to lift the rest of his bulk and stood, turning so his back was against the narrow red brick wall between two arched windows.
He’d conquered walls with thinner ledges, but not many.
Tucking his hands beneath his arms to warm them, he strained his neck to peer into the window. The Japanese screen about four paces inside consisted of three panels skewed into diagonal sides so they could stand upright. A panel depicting an Asian landscape blocked his view.
Argent could only see the gleam of a copper tub through a slivered crack in the bent screen. Steam rose above its rim, so he waited a few minutes to make sure no one was submerged.
The time he spent waiting unsettled him. If nothing else, he was a patient man. His profession was about timing. The time it took to enter someone’s home. The time it took for a mark to strike out, pass out, or bleed out. How long it would take him to make his escape. Or, most importantly, how long it took his clients to make their payments. So taking the time to decipher whether Millicent LeCour’s head would appear above the bathwater took on a distinctly anticipatory edge.
Argent blinked. And just what did he anticipate? He couldn’t say. In fact, he couldn’t remember anticipating much of anything before. And so his brain wouldn’t dare answer the question.
But his body did.
His lips throbbed with the exquisite memory of her mouth pressed against them. His skin felt warm, the heat radiating out from his quickening blood. His cravat became tight, his clothing binding. Especially his trousers. His lungs seemed to need more room than his ribs were willing to give, and suddenly it was impossible not to fog the window with his overheated breath.