by Anne Gracie
Instead he’d left her in a situation that only added to her isolation and loneliness, her vulnerability. Leaving her open to chance. Miss Chance. Mischance.
He’d like to wring Miss Abigail Chance’s neck for taking advantage of a sick and dependent old lady, binding her with ties formed by gratitude and loneliness, illness and vulnerability. But he’d discover her game. He was an entirely different proposition from his aunt.
Nine years sailing the seven seas, doing business in the darkest, most cutthroat reaches of the world . . . These days nobody took advantage of Max Davenham. Not even sweet-faced, two-faced young women.
But first, to deal with this quack and get his aunt some proper medical attention.
* * *
Abby was in the entry hall, heading for the front door, when Lord Davenham appeared on the landing. Unfortunately she’d advanced just far enough into the hall to make retreat impossible, not without appearing craven.
It wasn’t cowardice, she told herself; she simply had no desire for private conversation with his still-hostile lordship, not while he was spoiling for a fight, which he so obviously was.
The question was, How much did he know? Would he know Abby had climbed in his aunt’s window, intending to steal? And what about the brothel?
Lady Beatrice had assured Abby she would keep it a secret, but was an assurance the same as a promise? And now that her nephew was here, asking questions, demanding answers, would she still maintain her silence? Abby wasn’t sure.
From the corner of her eye she spotted the moment Lord Davenham spied her. He took the last half dozen stairs in a couple of strides and headed toward her.
He must have spent almost two hours with his aunt. It spoke well of him, she reluctantly admitted. Most men would have made a brief visit to an elderly aunt and then hurried off, citing some important business to attend to.
She lifted her chin and quickened her pace, making for the front door, hoping to appear oblivious of him, though how anyone could reasonably be oblivious of a tall, dark Viking prowling purposefully toward her with a gleam in his eyes that spelled trouble was more than she could imagine.
Still, a girl could only try.
“Miss Chance.”
Abby affected a start of surprise and turned. “Oh, Lord Davenham, I thought you’d left already.”
The gleam in his eye turned faintly sardonic. She’d fooled no one.
“I’m told my aunt is now attended by a new physician. You deemed the most popular doctor of the ton unsuitable?” It was an accusation rather than a question. Typical man, she thought: arrives on the scene after years of absence and immediately starts criticizing.
“Not unsuitable, merely unavailable the first time we sent for him, and since Featherby had heard excellent reports of Dr. Findlay . . .” She shrugged. “Your aunt has flourished under Dr. Findlay’s care, and she is well satisfied with the change.”
“I’m sure she is,” he said, making it clear who was satisfied and who was not. “He prescribes excitement, I believe.” There was a world of cynicism in his voice.
“Yes. He’s not hidebound by convention.” Had he noted her emphasis? Hard to tell when you were talking to a graven image. “Featherby has the doctor’s card, should you wish to speak to him yourself,” she said, and swept resolutely toward the door. “I have errands to run.”
The black brows snapped together. “You’re going out? By yourself?”
“Being well beyond the age of needing a chaperone, I am,” she told him. “Good-bye, Lord Davenham.”
A fine, light drizzle was drifting down outside, but Abby was ready for it, having snatched an umbrella from the hall stand as she passed.
However, in her haste, she’d taken the one with the stiff catch. She stood on the front steps, wrestling with the wretched thing, cursing it under her breath. Of course, just when she wished most to disappear down the street while Lord Davenham was delayed getting the doctor’s address from Featherby . . .
“Having difficulty?” A large, tanned hand closed over hers where she held the umbrella. His hand was bare and brawny, nicked with old scars, a hand used to hard work. Or fighting. Or both. She could feel the warmth of him even through her gloves.
He removed the umbrella from her grasp.
“Please do not concern yourself. The catch is broken. I will get the other one from the hall sta—”
The umbrella popped open. She wanted to thrust the infuriating thing into the nearest bin. Instead, she thanked Lord Davenham politely and reached for the handle.
“Allow me.” He loomed over her, holding the umbrella above her head. Other than wresting the umbrella from him, she had no choice but to accept his assistance. His arm half circled her, keeping her close and dry. He smelled of the sea and that dark, masculine scent. She recognized it now: scent of arrogant male.
Holding the second umbrella, Featherby darted past them and out into the street. He produced a small silver whistle, blew into it and waved.
“I told him to find me a hackney cab.” The deep voice rumbled just above Abby’s ear. “I will give you a lift, Miss Chance. Save you from the damp.” It was neither question nor invitation. Lord Davenham ordered.
Abby had no illusions about his concern for her dampness. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly all r—”
“Nonsense. There’s no need for you to become drenched. A little patience is all that’s required. The hackney will not take long.” His big fist remained firmly closed around the handle of the umbrella.
Abby mentally added umbrellas to her shopping list. A dozen.
The drizzle intensified. He wasn’t even touching her, but she could feel the warmth of his body even through her best gray cloak. It felt almost . . . intimate.
The hackney arrived and Lord Davenham shepherded her to the curb, taking care she didn’t slip on the wet cobblestones and holding the umbrella above her. Abby, feeling absurdly like his prisoner being escorted to the gallows, allowed herself to be helped in.
He climbed in after her, and suddenly the small carriage felt a good deal smaller. His shoulders touched hers, and she was certain she could feel the warmth of his thighs even through her cloak and skirt. Though that was impossible. But it was suddenly quite warm inside the carriage.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Charing Cross,” she said. She wanted to visit the post office, see whether there was a letter yet containing a character reference. And to post some letters. “It’s but a step, so there really is no need—”
“Charing Cross, driver,” he told the jarvey, and the hackney jerked into motion.
They sat for a moment in silence, Abby pressed against the side of the carriage, staring out the window to avoid his gaze. She could feel him watching her the way a cat watched a mouse. A big relaxed cat, certain of his prey. Playing with it.
She sat up straighter. She was no prey of his. Or any man’s.
“Now, Miss Chance, I had another reason for—” he began, but Abby had had enough of dancing to his tune.
She seized the initiative. “I suppose you want to thank me for taking care of your aunt in your absence, but truly, there’s no need.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
What did he mean? That there was no need to thank her? Why? Because he doubted her motives? She took a quick, sidelong glance at his profile. Impassive. Severe. Of course he doubted her motives. He was the kind of man who doubted everyone’s motives.
He’d learn.
“How did you meet my aunt? And spare me the faradiddle about being her niece, for I know the truth of that one.”
Abby eyed him cautiously. She wasn’t going to admit a thing she didn’t have to. “Didn’t Lady Beatrice tell you?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, dry as sandpaper. “Apparently you flew in her window like a good fairy.”
Abby looked out the window, biting her lip to keep from smiling. “Then I wouldn’t dream of contradicting Lady Beatrice.”
His eyes
narrowed but he didn’t challenge her. He tried a different tack. “My aunt’s bedchamber looks nothing like it used to.”
He was getting at something, but she didn’t know what, so she decided to take the comment at face value. “We tried to make it as cheerful as possible for her. When you’re an invalid, it’s so easy to succumb to dejection. And your aunt enjoys having pretty things around her.”
“Your ‘sisters,’ for instance?”
She inclined her head, acting as if he’d complimented them, even though she was sure he’d intended some subtle insult. “They are pretty, aren’t they? And, of course, Jane is a beauty, but then I’m biased. And they do make very good company for your aunt. It’s beneficial for a recovering invalid to have youth and high spirits around, and they enjoy her company too.”
“You’re an expert in the care and constitution of invalids, are you?”
That edge of cynicism was beginning to annoy her. She met his gaze squarely. “Not an expert, but my mother was an invalid for more than a year when I was young, and I took care of her, so I do have a little experience.”
“And where is your mother now?”
“She died.” Abby stared out the window. She was quite proud of the way that had come out, without a wobble or a quaver to hint of the lump that came to her throat every time she spoke of Mama.
“My condolences,” he said stiffly. Outside the close confines of the hackney an argument exploded as the jarvey exchanged insults with the driver of a wagon that blocked the street. The wagon was moved, and as their journey resumed Lord Davenham asked, “And since your mother died? What did you do before you came to live with my aunt?”
But Abby had had enough of his questions. She turned and gave him a long look, then said in a cool voice, “Lady Beatrice knows everything she needs to know about my background.”
“Everything?”
“Naturally I have not burdened her with the minutiae of my life story, but I have informed her of the relevant portions.” And it looked like Lady Beatrice intended to keep their secrets, for which Abby was immensely grateful.
“Speaking of portions, explain the stipend you and your sisters receive from my aunt’s widow’s jointure.”
She stiffened. “Lady Beatrice insisted on that, but I assure you we earn our keep. You may snort, but I run the household, and though we have since employed a cook, Damaris is the one who most often manages to tempt your aunt’s appetite. Recovering invalids often lack app—”
“Yes, we know about your great knowledge of the care of invalids.”
She did not respond.
“I apologize,” he said. “I did not mean—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said in a brittle voice. “You were asking about the stipend. Jane is your aunt’s companion—well, we all perform that role, but Jane can happily sit and chat and read novels and magazines all day long if your aunt wishes it. She’s a sunny-natured girl and keeps your aunt cheerful and entertained.”
“And the little one with the bad leg?”
“Daisy? Oh, Daisy reminds your aunt she is a woman.”
“A what?”
She gave a half smile at his tone. “A man no doubt cannot imagine how good it feels to a woman to wear pretty clothes, to feel feminine and desirable, especially a woman who’s—”
“—an invalid.” His lip curled faintly. She could see he put no value on such things as cheerful company, pretty clothes or tempting food, but they were important; she knew it. She refused to be intimidated by that hard gaze.
“I was going to say a woman in the autumn of her years, but yes, an invalid also needs to be reminded she’s an attractive woman.”
“And how does Daisy create this miraculous effect?”
“She makes clothes, wonderful clothes. You saw the green-and-pink gauze and embroidered satin bed gown your aunt was wearing today?”
“The one designed for a woman half her age? And for a different class of female altogether?”
Abby itched to smack him. “Indeed. Clearly it’s wasted on a man like yourself, who cares nothing for his own appearance. Now, if you’ve finished interrogating me . . .” The carriage was approaching Charing Cross, and she moved to knock on the window to signal the driver to stop.
Max caught her wrist before she could do it. “Not yet! I haven’t finished with you.” She struggled and tried to pull away, but he held her effortlessly in a light, firm grip. The gloves were off now.
“Let go of me!” she said in a low, furious voice. She raised her other hand, but he caught that too, and then they were almost chest to chest. “I have no interest in what you have to say.”
“No, you wouldn’t want to know what I think of the kind of harpy who takes advantage of a sick, lonely old woman! The truth is ugly, but hear it you will.” His face was bare inches from hers, his eyes slits of icy contempt.
“Harpy?” She tried to pull free. “How dare you impugn my motives! Let me make this quite clear—Lady Beatrice invited my sisters and me to come and live with her, not the other way around. I never asked—but I was very glad to come. I don’t deny it. We all were. But I don’t have to justify myself to you—”
“You damned well do.”
“Then put it this way—I won’t. My arrangement was with your aunt, not you.”
“She’s in no fit state to make decisions—”
“Rubbish! She might not be able to walk at the moment, but there’s nothing wrong with her brain.”
“You’re a very high-handed young woman, aren’t you?” He shook her wrists. “Worming your way into my aunt’s life, taking over her home, sacking her servants, appointing your own in their place, dismissing the physician who’d attended her for the last twenty years, treating her home and possessions as your own—and don’t think I haven’t noticed all the things that are missing—even her rings, dammit! You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, young woman. I’m not a feeble old lady ripe to be fleeced and hoodwinked!”
He loomed over her, his chest just touching her breasts, his storm-filled eyes dark with some kind of unknowable emotion.
“You’re hurting me,” she said coldly. It wasn’t true, but Abby didn’t care. She was in a rage now.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a long, breathless, incredulous moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Which his next utterance proved was ridiculous.
“I’d like to strangle you,” he growled, releasing his grip on her and moving back. “You deserve it and more.”
She shook herself like an angry cat and rubbed her wrists, her eyes sparking with anger.
“I should haul you and those others off to the nearest magistrate, but that would distress my aunt. But what if I offered you a handsome sum to leave my aunt’s home and never return?”
“What, and leave her in your capable hands?” She made a contemptuous noise. “You’re the one who hared off to India for nearly ten years, leaving her to rot!”
“Leaving her to rot?” The gray eyes were flinty with rage. “I did nothing of the sort. When I left her she was as fit as a flea, a leader of the ton, with a dozen servants to take care of her, a man of business to oversee her domestic affairs and a horde of friends.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then. I’m glad your conscience is clear. It doesn’t matter, I suppose, that the servants were appalling, robbing a sick old lady blind, keeping her in the most atrocious conditions and denying her friends admission until they drifted away, leaving her even more helpless. Or that your so-called man of business never came near her from one end of the year to another, allowing the servants even more freedom to abuse her trust. And what about the fashionable doctor who never bothered to inquire after his patient of twenty years, even though she’d been terribly ill the last time he saw her?”
He stared at her, his face unreadable, his eyes chips of ice.
Abby stormed on. “You all left her to rot—every single one of you—and that’s why you can’t bear to have me and my sisters there—because
we didn’t. Well, don’t think you’ll chase me away, Lord Davenham, because I didn’t come at your invitation and I won’t leave at your command. I’ll go when Lady Beatrice asks me to go, and it won’t take a bribe to do it. And don’t you dare take that as an invitation to hound her until she does your bidding. She’s not nearly as strong yet as she likes to think.”
She dashed a hand across her eyes and said with a voice that trembled on the edge of tears. Angry tears, she told herself. Furious tears. “Now, Lord Davenham, if you don’t mind, I wish to get down.”
“No, I need to—”
“I don’t care what you need. I wish to get down. Now.” She knocked on the window and the cab immediately slowed. “You will find Dr. Findlay, Lady Beatrice’s physician, in the white building on the corner over there.” She opened the door before the hackney had come to a complete halt, and jumped lightly down.
Behind her Lord Davenham shouted something, but Abby ignored him, hurrying away without a backward look. Hateful, horrible man!
Max watched her thread her way through the traffic with a straight back and a swish of indignant skirts. She’d left her umbrella behind.
He twisted the umbrella handle in his hands. Damned if he knew what to think.
He’d planned to force her to admit to the fraudulent deception of his aunt. Instead she’d ripped into him like a little shrew, blasting him for his neglect of Aunt Bea. As if she had a right to, when they both knew she was no more her niece than . . . than the butler was.
Did she think to bamboozle him with her righteous little tirade?
He frowned. There had been genuine emotion in that outburst. As if she truly did care about Aunt Bea.
And for a girl without a penny, she hadn’t even tried to discover his terms. The moment he’d hinted at a bribe, she’d ripped into him, flinging it back in his teeth without a moment’s hesitation.
He’d never had a woman stand up to him in quite that way, spitting defiance at him without a shred of fear, dressing him down like a feisty little governess, even when he had her pressed back against the carriage seats, her wrists imprisoned in his hands. He was twice her size, but had she let it intimidate her? Not for a moment.