The Gentleman's Deception

by Tuft, Karen

  Hannah snorted and shook her head again.

  “Arthur,” Delia said gently, “you’re the dearest man in the world, and thank you for thinking I’m still capable of attracting such a handsome young man at my age. But, gracious, I’m not thinking of keeping Mr. Jennings around for myself. It’s Livvy I’m thinking about.”

  “Ah, of course,” Artie said.

  “Delia, no matchmaking, and I mean it,” Lavinia warned. “I’ve had my fill of men—the flowers and flirting and propositions . . . not to mention my name appearing in the betting books at all the gentlemen’s clubs. Oh yes, I’ve heard the stories. We’ve worked too hard for this little bit of independence, and for the first time, we will actually have a place to call home and put down real roots. I’ll not be tossing it all aside on the first attractive gentleman with whom I cross paths—”

  “Aha! So you do find him attractive, then!” Delia said in a triumphant tone that couldn’t help but irk Lavinia.

  “Well, of course I find him attractive,” she retorted. “What young lady wouldn’t? And of course I’m indebted to him for coming to my rescue and for helping me find all of you this morning—”

  “Could have sworn you said the White Hart,” Hannah muttered.

  “You know, a hart is a deer, Hannah,” Artie said instructively. “Not a horse. Some very clever puns on the word in Twelfth Night.”

  “Artie . . .” Lavinia warned.

  “‘O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,’” Artie quoted, gazing steadfastly at Delia, his arm outstretched dramatically. “‘Methought she purged the air of pestilence! / That instant was I turn’d into a hart; / And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, / E’er since pursue me.’”

  Delia applauded. “Bravo, Arthur. Very moving.”

  Artie placed his hand on his chest. “Hart and heart, you see.”

  “Of course we see,” Hannah grumbled. “We aren’t daft, now, are we?”

  “Give us a hand, now, Hannah, if you please,” Artie said, shifting about so he could get his feet solidly under him. Hannah grabbed him beneath his elbow and helped support his weight while he rose shakily and settled next to Delia on the bench. “I daresay the rain has made my rheumatics act up,” Artie said in an apologetic voice. “Blast this getting old business.”

  “Never you mind about that,” Delia said. “Sing for us, Arthur. Otherwise I fear we shall be sitting here for an hour or so listening to the rain rat-a-tat-tat until we are like to go mad. And you have such a lovely voice. I always did like listening to you sing.”

  Lavinia turned her head to look out the window again. Lucas and his horse had disappeared from view. Part of her wondered if he’d decided he’d had enough of dealing with her and her friends and had ridden off in escape.

  But another part of her thought he might just be the gentleman she’d told him he was last night at the inn. It was difficult for Lavinia to imagine a man who actually kept his promises—although Artie was a dear and was very loyal, so perhaps there were a few such rare men who existed.

  Perhaps Lucas Jennings was such a man. Perhaps.

  “‘When that I was and a little tiny boy, / With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain,’” Artie crooned softly in his low baritone voice. “‘A foolish thing was but a toy, / For the rain it raineth every day.’”

  It was a sweet, melancholy little song Shakespeare had penned and wholly appropriate for the occasion, and not only because it was raining. The words spoke of a man’s efforts to improve his station only to continually encounter hardships regardless. Lavinia felt that way—or, more precisely, she felt her life thus far had allowed her to be nothing but a toy—a whimsy, an actress who flaunted herself in breeches and whom men longed to treat as a plaything.

  There had to be more. Life couldn’t always be about the rain.

  * * *

  Lucas was up to his neck in water, but at least now it was steaming-hot bath water, not the cold rain that had been running down his neck and soaking through all the layers of his clothes. The tub was too small to accommodate his tall frame, so he was sitting with his knees poking out well above the water, but such had been the case since achieving his adult height at the age of fourteen.

  He rubbed soap on a cloth and scrubbed his right foot and then his left. While he did, he could hear Mr. Drake puttering around on the other side of the privacy screen. They’d managed—barely since there were other travelers who’d chosen not to continue their journeys in this weather—to find two small vacant rooms at the Rose and Crown near the town of Stevenage, and the innkeeper had been good enough, despite the bustle of extra business the rain had caused, to send his servants up with the tub and pails of boiling water. They’d also lit and stoked the fire, which was blazing nicely now. Lucas’s coat, waistcoat, and breeches were currently draped near the fire in the hope that they would dry sufficiently for Lucas to actually dress in them after his bath.

  He still had his clean change of linen; last night, since circumstances had compelled him to share his room with a strange female, he had not shed some of his usual clothing.

  On the Peninsula, a soldier slept in his clothes out of necessity because it enabled him to respond quickly and, therefore, more successfully during an attack. And although Lucas had spent the past several weeks enjoying a comfortable bed and the luxury of sleeping in nightclothes if he so chose, his encounter with the enigmatic Lavinia last evening had resurrected all his old precautionary military behaviors.

  Now, for the second night in a row, Lucas was sharing a room with a stranger. This one, however, concerned Lucas significantly less. Case in point: presently, Mr. Drake was humming to himself as he moved about the room, occasionally letting loose a “heigh ho.” Lucas had wondered during the coach ride today if the elderly man had all his wits about him, as he’d occasionally made comments that had seemed rather off-topic—that is, until right now, when Lucas finally had time to consider the words in retrospect.

  For example, Lucas thought as he soaped up his chest and under his arms, there had been that moment when the others had been discussing their plans when they arrived at Primrose Farm. Hannah had been fretting over the condition of the house, while Miss Weston had been expressing her desires to create a flower garden.

  And then Mr. Drake had opened his mouth and said he was looking forward to playing the butler. Playing the butler.

  Lavinia and the others had given him a sharp look, which had caused the old fellow to withdraw into himself, mumbling something along the lines of using the word play because he’d never been a butler before and expected the challenge to be fun.

  At the time, Lucas had considered Mr. Drake’s words merely eccentric, but now he wasn’t so sure, especially when added to the man’s propensity to spout Shakespeare.

  Lucas slid under the water to rinse his hair, causing the water to slosh over the sides of the tub.

  “You all right back there?” Mr. Drake called when Lucas resurfaced and began sluicing the water from his face and head. “Sounds like you brought the storm inside.”

  “I’m fine.” Lucas rose from the tub and dried off. “Are my clothes dry, Mr. Drake?” he asked.

  He heard the man move across the room to the fireplace. “Not quite, but making fine progress. Not long now, I should think.”

  Blast. That was an inconvenience, to say the least, but there was nothing that could be done about it but attempt patience. He may as well use the time the best he could.

  He wrapped the towel around his middle and secured it in place, then knelt by the tub and proceeded to wash his dirty linens in the bath water. It wasn’t an ideal laundry setting, but he’d dealt with worse on the Peninsula, where his clothes washing had usually taken place in whatever river or stream they’d encountered. At least tonight he had soap, something that hadn’t always been available while he’d been in the army, depending on where his regiment was and how near to a supply transport they happened to be.

  There was a knock at the door, which Mr. Dr
ake answered, and then the door closed with an ominous thud. “Goodness, but it’s hot in here!” Lucas heard Miss Weston exclaim.

  He froze.

  “It’s that way for a purpose, Delia,” Mr. Drake explained. “’Tis the only way our friend Mr. Jennings is going to have a scrap of clothes to wear otherwise.”

  “Dear me,” Miss Broome said.

  Mr. Drake had let Miss Weston and Miss Broome into the room? And if those two were here, Lavinia was undoubtedly with them. Lucas quickly situated himself behind the tub as strategically as he could and silently berated Mr. Drake.

  “No other clothes?” Lavinia called out, proving his assumption to be correct. “Is that true, Lucas?”

  Lucas realized he was wringing the water from his drawers a little too vigorously. “Indeed,” he replied as coolly as possible, considering he was trapped behind a privacy screen in his natural state. “You may recall, if you were to cast your mind back, that I had only my saddlebag with me when we were so suddenly thrust together.” He set his drawers aside and began scrubbing soap into his shirt.

  “Your poor coat,” he heard Lavinia say. “It not only soaked up the rain, but it encountered a great deal of mud as well. And your boots! Well, there is only one thing to be done.”

  Lucas looked up in alarm, although, really, all he could see was the privacy screen—

  “Hannah,” Lavinia continued. “Collect Mr. Jennings’ clothes, if you please—”

  “No!” Lucas dropped his shirt into the tub and jumped to his feet, clutching his towel to keep it securely in place. He stumbled around the tub and poked his head around the side of the screen, careful to keep the rest of him well concealed.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Jennings!” Miss Weston said cheerily, as though her earlier ordeal in the carriage had not occurred and greeting an unclothed male—however strategically hidden—was a daily occurrence for her.

  “Miss Weston.” He greeted her with a nod. What else was he to do? The entire situation was ludicrous. “I’m glad to see you have recovered from the accident this afternoon. Lavinia, I would ask that you not take my things, for the obvious reasons.”

  She, unlike Miss Weston, kept her eyes averted and directed her efforts toward inspecting his clothes, feeling them for dampness. She’d changed out of her gray traveling clothes, exchanging them for a dark-green dress that, sadly, wasn’t any more flattering. She had left off her bonnet but had retained the cap. “Hannah is the most accomplished person you shall ever meet when dealing with any article of clothing. She can take the proverbial sow’s ear and turn it into something even finer than a silk purse. Hannah shall have you looking better than ever. I guarantee it.”

  Lucas wasn’t convinced since Miss Broome had never looked at him with anything more than wary mistrust. “All the same, I think I’d rather fend for myself in this regard.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the least we can do.” She began gathering Lucas’s clothing and handing them to Miss Broome. “Artie, be a dear and run to the kitchen. I’m famished, and I expect everyone else is as well. And see if they’ve an iron we can borrow.”

  “And some cleaning rags too, Artie,” Miss Broome said as she examined the items she now held. “These clothes is going to need some sponging up first.” She reached for his boots.

  “Not my boots,” Lucas said, clutching at the privacy screen in frustration. “I draw the line at my boots.”

  “Very well; leave his boots, Hannah,” Lavinia said, handing the rest of Lucas’s clothes to her. “Let’s get to work, then.”

  “I’m relying on your honor, Miss Fernley, to ensure that my clothing is returned to me within the hour. I may seem disadvantaged at the moment, but you are dealing with a seasoned veteran of war. I have very little actual modesty remaining as a result, and what there is at present is in deference to you ladies. But if you prove untrustworthy, do not doubt me when I say there will be retribution, regardless of my state of dress or lack thereof.”

  Lavinia arched her brows at him. “There will be no need for retribution, Mister Jennings.” She’d returned his formal address to her with one of her own. “My claims about Hannah’s skills are an understatement of fact. And as you have graciously accompanied us, obviously to your detriment, it is only fair that we return a kindness with a kindness.” She turned with a flourish and left the room, with Hannah—her arms filled with Lucas’s only clothes, heaven help him—trailing in her wake.

  Miss Weston winked at Artie and followed, shutting the door behind her.

  There was something odd about the old lady’s wink . . .

  He furiously cast his eyes about the room. Blast it all, they’d toddled off with his boots in tow after all!

  Lucas’s head felt perilously close to exploding. He stalked to the door and locked it before Mr. Drake could make a clean getaway, then turned and loomed over the little man. “What in blazes were you thinking?” Lucas practically roared. “Letting those women into our room like that, with me—” He gestured up and down his body with the hand that wasn’t presently holding his towel in place. “Where is your decorum, man? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Sorry, old boy; it’s only that after so many years in the—um, well, never mind that.” Artie straightened and struck an oratorical pose. “‘Women speak two languages—one of which is verbal,’” he said.

  “That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever,” Lucas said, his frustration ratcheting up several more notches. He tossed his towel onto the bed and tugged on his remaining clean shirt and drawers, leaving his other shirt marinating in the tub. “For future reference, Mr. Drake, bathing and other private needs are to be accomplished without an audience.”

  “Audience, hah! That’s a good one, sir. I’ll remember that.”

  “They took my clothes and my boots, man! In the meantime, you are finding jokes in my speech that do not exist.” He dropped his voice to a menacing tone. “If you do not wish to meet your Maker anytime soon, you will make certain my clothes are returned to me within the hour, as I said.”

  “Hannah’s good, but she doesn’t like to be rushed, if you see what I mean, Mr. Jennings.”

  Lucas loomed even closer, forcing the old man to shrink back. “One hour, Mr. Drake. One. Hour.”

  Mr. Drake nodded his head vigorously. “I shall do my best, sir. You have my word.”

  “Just make sure that it happens,” Lucas snapped. He felt as if he were acting in a farce at the moment. “Go see to the food and the iron,” he said.

  “Right. Food, iron, and rags.”

  “Now you’re beginning to think straight,” Lucas said. He pulled one of the chairs—the one his breeches had been draped across—a few feet from the fireplace and sat.

  “I shall return shortly,” Artie announced.

  Lucas waved a hand in his direction.

  “Decorum it is from here on out,” Artie added.

  Lucas said nothing.

  “And privacy.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Drake.”

  The key in the lock turned, and the door opened and closed.

  Lucas slumped in the chair and closed his eyes. It had been an exhausting day after an uncomfortable night with little sleep. He wanted to crawl into bed but didn’t dare—not while the women had his clothing. Lucas didn’t relish waking up hours later to find his trust misplaced, his traveling companions gone, and his clothing missing in action.

  Closing his eyes in an overwarm room was not a good idea, he thought drowsily.

  A knock at the door awakened him with a start. Blast, he’d fallen asleep, he thought as he tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain. If he were still in Spain, he would be dead by now.

  The person on the other side of the door knocked again. “Supper, as was ordered,” a female voice called.

  He lunged to his feet, grabbed a blanket off the bed, and wrapped it around himself before opening the door. He wasn’t about to miss supper, regardless of his fatigue or lack of attire.

  “Over there, please,
” he gestured to the red-faced serving girl, who hurriedly set down the tray and exited with the quickest curtsy Lucas had ever seen, not that he blamed her.

  He quickly polished off the surprisingly decent mutton stew and bread, then placed his dishes outside the door, unwrapped himself from the blanket, and proceeded to make himself a bed on the floor.

  Mr. Drake was an odd old duck—a fitting play on words—but he seemed harmless enough. Miss Broome huffed and puffed about but reminded Lucas more of his own old nurse than a sinister character. And while tiny Miss Weston definitely had a devious streak, she was too old and frail to be much of a threat.

  Now, Lavinia, on the other hand . . . She was an entirely different matter. She was still traveling in disguise, for one thing. She was also much younger than Lucas had originally thought—most likely in her midtwenties, if he were to venture a guess—only a bit younger than himself. Despite her young age, however, she was definitely the leader of their little group. What had brought them all together was still a mystery, but he was developing a theory. And soon enough, he would put his theory to the test.

  His traveling companions were an entertaining lot. And if they made off with his clothes? Now that he’d eaten and was feeling more rational, he realized that if they did abandon him, his situation wasn’t the end of the world, for he still had his saddlebag, which now held his money, and there was enough to see him to some clothing and boots if necessary. He would get the innkeeper to assist him in the purchases.

  At any rate, Lucas was fairly confident now that Mr. Drake would return soon enough with his clothes in tow.

  He lay on one side of the blanket and pulled the rest of it over him on the floor, his saddlebag at his side for safety’s sake; he wasn’t an utter fool. He plumped the pillow beneath his head, sending a few goose feathers from their confines and floating past his eyes. How had he ever managed to sleep this way during all his years in the army? Even with the brief nap, he was exhausted.

  He punched the pillow again and swatted more feathers from his face. The plain truth was that one simply learned to deal with one’s circumstances. Just as he was going to have to do when he reached home and faced his family—and Isobel.