A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “You are ridiculous! But you prove my point. No gentleman would look at a lady in that rakish fashion.”

  “When you are my wife, I shall always look at you so. Unless I am glaring at you, of course.”

  “I am not going to be your wife.”

  “How much do you want to wager?”

  “Nothing, for I have lost my sovereigns and can be sure of no more until I see my man of business.”

  “Who is?”

  “Sly, but I am up to snuff. You shall not know from me, sir.”

  “Why in the world are you so stubborn?”

  “It is my besetting sin; Grandfather always said so.”

  “He was right. And I shall marry plain Miss Charity Evans.”

  “The banns will not be binding.”

  “Am I such an antidote? I am acclaimed most eligible in some circles.”

  “You are not precisely an antidote, but you are arrogant and overbearing, and a shade uncivil . . .”

  Nicholas ignored her. “Why can you not tell me who you are? Trust me.”

  “You said you did not want to be bored by my tale.”

  “Well, that was before you saved my life and I had the faintest inkling what a devilish fine shot you are!”

  “A fine shot is no recommendation for marriage, my lord. And I told you. Saving your life was payment of the tab.”

  “Extravagant payment.”

  “Indeed, but then I was horribly hungry and sadly in need of a chamber. I do not deceive myself that I should have succeeded in either had you not intervened.”

  “True, but it took little effort on my part.”

  “Yes, it is a shocking thing what rank and a haughty demeanor can achieve.”

  Nicholas grinned, but those subtle marks of pain were back. Tessie noted it instantly, for his brows furrowed, and there was telltale moisture upon his brow.

  “I am sorry it hurts.”

  “So am I.”

  “Try sleeping. If there was some laudanum somewhere. . .”

  “There is. Joseph always carries it. For . . . emergencies.”

  “For acting the spy, you mean.”

  “For acting government’s agent, Madame Sharp-Tongue.”

  Tessie grinned, for he was obviously nettled.

  “I shall get some, then. And a cotton shirt. You will feel better clean.”

  She slid down from the bed, glad of something to do other than fall under the spell of those mesmerizing eyes and the sheer lines of his body, hardly decent under the bedclothes.

  The laudanum helped, for though Nick would not admit it, the wound was starting to cause him some concern. It was a mere scratch by dueling standards, but it ached nonetheless, and his head felt like lead. He wiped away some of the perspiration and shut his eyes for a fraction of a second, noting that Miss Tessie had drawn up a chair, regrettably out of reach, but that her precious pistol was nowhere to be seen. She was not, then, going to abscond. He closed his eyes just for a fraction of a second. Tessie climbed up the bed stairs. Yes, he was sleeping. She was relieved and yet, curiously, disappointed.

  Dawn dappled the room with faint shades of light. The candles were well burned now, but it was possible to see perfectly well in the morning shadows. A knock, rather hearty, woke Tessie from her dreams with a start. She hoped it was neither the innkeeper nor his detestable wife. It was too early for that, surely?

  “Joseph?”

  “Aye, mistress, back from Stipend, and with a jolly tale to tell.” His words were whispered but loud enough for Tessie to hear perfectly. She fumbled with the large key and opened the door, still resplendent in her borrowed plumes.

  Joseph, entering, eyed her shrewdly.

  “Dosed ’im with laudanum, did yer?”

  Tessie shut the door. “How did you know?”

  “If yer be all tricked out in that them togs,’‘is lor’ship must be right weary.”

  “I had nothing else, only my ripped nightrail.”

  “Aye. My point precisely.”

  “Oh!”

  Joseph grinned. “Now save yer blushes, lassie. ‘Is lor’ship is a right good gun, if a bit . . .”

  “High-handed?”

  “Yes. Took a right likin’ to yer, ’e did.”

  Tessie brightened. “Did he? I thought he thought me a shimble-shamble hoyden.”

  “Then he is a fool, ‘e is, not lettin’ on . . . but I should not be jawin’ with yer with ’is lordship wounded. Is it bad, then?”

  “I don’t know. He says it is a scratch, but the wound seems deep and I have no restorative powder. . . .”

  “Did ‘e take his laudanum gently, or did yer force it down ’im?”

  “Joseph, I am a lady. I don’t force.”

  Joseph grinned. “Aye,” he agreed blankly, but Tessie was not fooled. She tried to suppress a grin, but failed. “If you must know, he took the stuff meekly.”

  Joseph sobered a little. “Then ’e is in a worse way than I feared.”

  “I think he had a fever. I wiped his forehead several times but hesitated to call for help. One does not want talk hereabouts.”

  “No, there will be enough blabberheads in the mornin’, when the barn is swept clean.”

  “Shall they suspect?”

  “No, for what gentry mort goes a jaunterin’ about up to mischief?”

  “Ask Lord Cathgar.”

  “Oi ‘aye, but ’e just laughs. Right infuriatin’ ’e be.”

  “But you love him.”

  “Now, don’t yer go tellin’ ’im any such tales.”

  Tessie laughed. “I won’t. He is far too complacent as it is!”

  Joseph walked up to the bed.

  “Like as not ‘e will do, missy. You did a fine job with the bandaging, and there ain’t no seepin’ that oi can tell.”

  “There was, and I had no liniment, but I cleaned quite thoroughly . . .”

  “Oh, yer did, did yer?” Joseph afforded her a sideways glance that held the whisper of a smile.

  Miss Hampstead, remembering her unsuitable garment, and worse, the unsuitable night spent in a man’s—albeit mostly unconscious—company, blushed.

  “E’ll marry yer right an tight, e’ will. ’E may be a ’ard ’ead, but ’e’s a gentleman born.”

  “Joseph, don’t put such thoughts in his head again! For your information—and I don’t usually gossip with servants, but you seem a very superior sort—I have already refused him.”

  “ ’E took it meekly, did ’e?”

  “No, you rascal, he did not. But when he’s recovered, he will see that I am perfectly right. I must go now.”

  “ ‘E will ’ave my ’ide if I let yer go.”

  “Then you shall tell him you did at pistol point.” With that, Tessie picked up the pistol, still nonchalantly lying upon the occasional table, and smiled sweetly. She aimed it, rather considerately, at his lapel. If she shot, it would not be at his heart.

  “You are mad!”

  “Maybe a little. Au revoir, Joseph. Take good care of your master.”

  With a nod, she was gone.

  Nine

  It was two days since Tessie had returned to her room, recovered what was left of her possessions, and changed into a respectable gown. It was a pearly mauve, not fashionable, but presentable nonetheless.

  The grimy pink she discarded, along with the ruins of her nightrail and several laboriously written notes to Lord Cathgar. None, it seemed, could express the half of what she wanted to say, so she satisfied herself by calling up a hansom cab and referring the tab to his person.

  Not, she knew, either prudent or virtuous, but she had no choice, with not a feather to fly with until she drew her pin money off Markham’s, the family banker.

  She was fortunate that the innkeeper, remembering his tactical error of the day before, maintained his bowing and scraping demeanor all the while through her morning chocolate and cinnamon buns. It was he who vouchsafed for her to the hansom cab driver, indicating slyly that she was “u
nder my lord’s protection.” She valiantly refrained from arguing the point, considering that since her reputation was in shreds, there was little to be gained.

  London was bustling with traffic, with hackneys, with great crested carriages and market carts loaded full with fruit and breads. Despite her situation, it was exciting, for she had missed her first Season and consequently not seen the great buildings, the museums, the tower, for oh, such a long time. The cobbles resounded with the sound of hooves as matched bays and regal chestnuts drew phaetons and more cumbersome barouches.

  “Where to, missy?”

  But Tessie had no idea, no respectable address, and no maidservant. She hesitated as a cart of oranges nearly collided into the hansom cab. It was too late for the lawyers, so she murmured the only respectable name she could think of: The Colonnade. Thus it was that on the morning after her great adventure, Miss Theresa Hampstead, unchaperoned, checked into a hotel. Prudently, she did not tell the porter that she was the granddaughter to a viscount. In her faded dimity, he probably would have laughed.

  Mr. Devonshire, when she was finally ushered into his presence, appeared grave. Theresa could not help but feel shabby in her olive half mourning, sprigged, as it was, in Mantua silk with only a whisper of white rosettes at the hems and sleeves. She had procured it from Madame Fanchon’s, a half block from the Colonnade, after presenting herself at the banker’s.

  The gown had been the only item, ready made, that had fitted her. Madame Fanchon usually only made to order, but in this instance she had been lucky. Lady Pendergast had canceled at the last moment. Grown, according to the loquacious seamstress, “too fat.”

  Still, save for the prospect of wandering through the Pantheon Bazaar unescorted, Miss Hampstead had had no alternative. If only Mr. Dobbins had not made off with her valise!

  But she could not lament what she could not change, so she held out her hand to Mr. Devonshire and afforded him one of her calm smiles.

  “Please excuse my attire, sir, my journey was more arduous than I expected.”

  The lawyer waved away her excuses. In truth, she looked perfectly presentable to him, but he knew nothing of stylish modes. He fixed, therefore, on the second half of her utterance.

  “I am sorry the journey was arduous. It was not one you should have undertaken! I would have made the trip myself; you must know that.”

  “But I don’t, Mr. Devonshire.” Tessie hesitated, then, annoyed by feeling at such a disadvantage, continued firmly.

  “Despite repeated correspondence to your office, I have not had the courtesy of a return word. Believe me, had matters not been . . . desperate, I should not have undertaken this troublesome venture for all the world.”

  There was a pause as Mr. Devonshire polished a lens.

  “Or at least,” Tessie more truthfully amended, “I might not have done it in so shimble-shamble a way.”

  Again, there was that grave nod of silvery-white hair. She wondered if she had seen a glimmer of disapproval in his eyes. But no, his voice was gentle.

  “Do take a seat, my dear. I shall ring for a fortifying cup of tea.”

  Miss Hampstead had little desire for tea, but her natural good manners caused her to thank him most politely as she drew off her gloves and reached into her reticule.

  To her profound horror, she was feeling vaporish. This was a foible she positively despised in other females. How many times had she abhorred quite roundly the use of sal volatile and other loathsome restoratives! Now she rather wished her reticule held more than two handkerchiefs, her purse of replenished guineas, and her pistol. Since none of these items were of any use to her at that moment, she satisfied herself with tangling her ribbons into a knot.

  Mr. Devonshire, watching her keenly through rather beetling white brows, was surprised. His dealings with the gentler sex—fortunately they had not been common—had always led, somehow, to several maudlin fits of the hysterics.

  Miss Hampstead, though agitated, did not succumb to a fit of feminine whining—or worse yet, weeping. When she’d finished mangling the ribbons of her reticule, she seemed to regain a great deal of composure, for she sat becomingly upright upon her upholstered seat and contemplated fiercely the portrait of Sir Francis Drake upon the far wall.

  Mr. Devonshire could not help experiencing a fleeting satisfaction. An excellent rendition it was, having been purchased from Lord Marlborough for the quite hideous sum of forty-five newly minted sovereigns. Drake was dressed all in black with a short white ruff and an elegant ruby gleaming upon his finger. Well executed, but the oils, though rich, were somber in tone. The lawyer found this tasteful, but Miss Hampstead, sad to say, found it only depressing.

  There was something in Drake’s dark hair and heroic stance that reminded her . . . but her mind wondered wickedly. She swallowed the ridiculous lump in her throat.

  “I have been remiss, it appears, in not replying sooner to your letters. Very remiss, if it means you have traveled by stage.”

  Miss Hampstead said nothing, for it would be impolite to agree, though she had railed at him several times privately for this omission.

  “You must know, my dear, that I have only late returned to London. I formed part of Lord Castlereigh’s contingent in Vienna, and it has taken me some small while to catch up with a good deal of my clients. My foolish clerks held back some of my correspondence, you see, pending my return. I was greatly saddened by the Viscount of Hampstead’s death. I must offer you my condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ah, the tea. Set it there, Mary.” He poured punctiliously and handed Tessie a steaming porcelain cup. Though the drink was far too sweet, it was strong and delightfully aromatic. Miss Hampstead drank deeply and found her hands were trembling less, a fact for which she could only be grateful.

  “Mr. Devonshire, might we come straight to the point? I am loath to appear mercenary, but I find myself quite at a stand. There are rumors in the village that I have been left without a feather to fly with, and though I am convinced this is quite untrue and contrary to Grandfather’s intent, I must ask you to clarify this.”

  “Yes, quite.” Mr. Devonshire returned his spectacles to his nose and shuffled through some papers.

  “I understood that I was my grandfather’s heiress.”

  “And so you were, Miss Hampstead. Notwithstanding, of course, the title and the entailed land.”

  “Of course. That is to go to the fifth viscount, some distant cousin, I apprehend.”

  “Yes. He is proving difficult to trace, but doubtless he shall be found in due course. His father died in the colonies, so it is likely that he still resides in the Americas.”

  “But Hampstead Oaks?”

  “That not being the principal seat of the viscount and thus not covered by the entail, it belongs to you.”

  “Oh!”

  “However, I should mention that at present it is more of a burden than a boon. The capital invested to maintain it is all but gone, and you shall be reliant on the rents to maintain yourself. Not satisfactory, given the costs of running the estate.”

  “I don’t understand. Hampstead Oaks is a thriving concern. Grandfather’s irrigation schemes have proven most successful, the breeding programs and stables alone . . .”

  Mr. Devonshire’s face revealed he did not approve of young ladies, however respectable, knowing anything about breeding programs.

  “Yes, well. All that is naturally true, but the investment was lost the night before his lordship’s death.”

  “How so?”

  “On a bet relating, I believe, to . . . but no! The exact details are rather irrelevant, are they not?”

  “Are you saying Grandfather staked Hampstead Oaks on a card game?”

  “Not a card game precisely, but the principle applies. And strictly speaking, it was not Hampstead Oaks he staked, but the principal of his capital. He drew on his banker on the morning of the seventeenth. Precisely, I believe, twenty hours before he died.”

 
“He said nothing to me of it!”

  “My dear girl, a gentleman, however well heeled, never speaks to his relatives of such things.”

  “Oh, but he did to me! I swear, half of Grandfather’s fortune was acquired through some bet or the other.”

  “Yes, well, if it is any comfort to you, young lady, he fully expected to win it back on the night of the eighteenth. He boasted of it to Markham, the banker, who was shocked at having to disperse so large a sum.”

  “I should imagine he was! Poor Grandfather. He was so wise, so canny, yet when it came to a simple game of hazard . . .”

  “He was a fool.”

  “You should not speak so of the dead.”

  “No, especially not of one who was a client of mine. However, I take leave to inform you, Miss Hampstead, that his lordship’s actions were rash in the extreme.”

  “Well, of course they were! All gamblers are rash.”

  The lawyer adjusted his lenses and frowned. Tessie could just see the hairs of his eyebrows raised above the rims.

  His tone, when next he spoke, was more definitely disapproving. She could not tell whether it was of herself or of the late viscount. She did not suppose, really, that it mattered.

  “You are remarkably sanguine, Miss Hampstead.” From which reproving comment she gathered it would be more fitting to either swoon or succumb to hysterics. She did neither, though the room swam a little and she felt hot for such a mild day. She grimly ignored both discomforts.

  “Sanguine? I have to be, Mr. Devonshire. I could wish it otherwise, but Grandfather lived by gentleman’s rules. He gambled recklessly, but never so recklessly that he could not pay the stake.”

  “But the stake was too high! It was your inheritance he dallied with!”

  “No, sir. It was his fortune he staked. If I had expectations, that is all that they were. Expectations. I am glad Grandfather settled his debt.”

  “Well, he did, at your expense, though of course, there is still your mother’s annuity. . . .”

  “I had forgotten that.”

  “Not surprising, as it is insignificant relative to the viscount’s estate. I have the papers just underneath these . . . let me see. Ah, yes. You are to receive two thousand pounds a year. . . .”