“I must say I am deeply relieved. You are a notoriously poor aim, and I should no doubt be forced to stand in some muddy field for hours waiting for you to draw blood.”
“Perhaps.” Biddles shrugged with the nonchalance of a man confident in his skill as a marksman. “But I cannot imagine it would be any more tedious than being cloistered with some stiff-rumped agent as he prattles about the wisdom of investing in barley rather than wheat or the disastrous effects of the latest labor unrest on the price of corn.”
“Unfortunately, it is my duty to ensure that the family fortune isn’t being dwindled away on absurd inventions or worthless gold mines.” Luke grimaced, inwardly acknowledging that the staunchly proper Man of Business would be as likely to toss himself into the Thames as to take an unnecessary risk.
“Well, it is a devilish bore, if you ask me.”
“Ah, yes, quite dull when compared to your habit of constantly attempting to outrun the constable.”
“It adds a decided spice to life,” Biddles sniffed, abruptly raising his quizzing glass as a carriage rolled past. “Egad, was that Pembroke? Do you suppose he recognized me?”
“I fail to see how he could not have recognized you,” Luke drawled with a pointed glance at the painful waistcoat. “Who else in London would be similarly attired?”
The long nose twitched, but before Biddles could conjure a suitable retort, the carriage swerved to an abrupt halt, throwing both occupants sharply against the padded walls. It took a moment for Luke to regain his scattered wits; then with years of training rushing to his aid, he found his balance and was leaping onto the crowded street with the innate grace of a natural sportsman.
Spotting his groom at the head of the perfectly matched grays, Luke hurried forward, quite prepared to discover that the street had crumbled into oblivion. That could be the only reasonable excuse for his groom’s cowhanded treatment of his thoroughbreds. What he found instead was a tiny bundle of gray topped by a mass of golden curls lying at his groom’s feet.
“What the devil . . . ? Jameson, what is about?”
Hearing his approach, the young groom turned to gaze at him with fearful eyes, clearly shaken by the small form huddled in the street.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but the young lady stepped directly in me path. I did me best. Honest I did. But . . . Oh, blimey, it t’wasn’t my fault. It t’wasn’t.”
Realizing the groom was swiftly working himself into a pucker, Luke regarded him in a stern manner.
“Go fetch the carriage blanket, Jameson.”
“I ... Yes, my lord.”
Scurrying back to the carriage, the groom left Luke alone to carefully round the skittish grays and slowly kneel beside the recumbent young lady. Then with exquisite care he turned her onto her back.
Just for a moment he felt his breath catch in his throat. How tiny she was, he thought inanely. Like a delicate child laid down for a nap. Rather hesitantly he reached out to push aside her cloud of silken curls. An odd pang twisted in his heart at the pale oval face that appeared so utterly still. He could see no obvious sign of injuries, but he knew that was no reassurance that she had not received grievous wounds in the unfortunate accident.
Almost unconsciously his slender fingers moved to gently wipe a smudge of dust from her smooth cheek. He knew that he would never forgive himself if she were to die, regardless of the fact he had no way of preventing the grim situation. Then a flare of deep relief rushed through his body as the long, black lashes began to flutter.
“No, do not move,” he urged as she began to lift herself off the hard pavement, his hands instinctively grasping her shoulders.
Turning her head, she regarded him with bewildered silver eyes, blinking rapidly as if startled by the sight of his dark, aquiline face so close to her own.
“What . . . What has occurred?” she asked softly, her cultured voice at considerable odds with the ragtag gown.
“I fear you had a rather nasty fall.”
“A fall?”
“Yes. You apparently stepped in front of my carriage.”
“Did I?”
“According to my distinctly distraught groom.”
“Oh.” She considered his words a long moment; then a shudder shook through her slender frame. “Yes, I remember.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, I do not think so,” she responded cautiously.
Luke frowned. “Are you quite certain?”
Without warning, a thoroughly charming dimple danced beside the inviting mouth. “Not unless you count my pride, which I must admit has taken a decided beating.”
The smile had a distinctly disturbing effect on Luke. From a man solely concerned with a young damsel in dire distress, he was suddenly aware that she was quite lovely despite her current dishabille.
Certainly not a beauty in the traditional sense, he acknowledged with his usual honesty. The chin was too firm, the mouth a bit too generous, and the fine gray eyes more shrewd than tempting, but even for a man accustomed to women devoting endless hours to their appearance, he had to admit there was something very compelling about the delicate countenance.
His frank appraisal might have continued for several more moments, but a delightful flood of color suddenly stained her pale skin, revealing that she was not so rattled that she had missed his admiring glance. With an effort, he attempted to ignore the faint scent of violets that drifted from her glorious golden curls, and the warmth of her skin he could feel beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
“Perhaps I should send for a physician. I would feel easier of spirit to be assured that nothing is amiss. ”
“I am quite fine.”
“Still, it cannot do harm to have him take a look.”
“Oh, no, please,” she protested, an undeniable plea in the dove gray eyes. “I have made enough of a spectacle of myself as it is. I just wish to go to my carriage.”
For a man who made it a strict habit never to spend a moment longer in the company of a young, eligible lady than absolutely necessary, Luke was oddly reluctant to allow the young chit to slip into obscurity. Indeed, he felt his hands tightening as if afraid she might simply disappear in a puff of smoke.
“Nonsense,” he heard himself saying. “I shall take you home myself. I assume you have an establishment in London?”
His generous offer had an odd effect on the young maiden as a guarded expression descended on her pale features.
“You are very kind, but I assure you that is not necessary. Indeed, I have no need of any further assistance.”
He blinked, distinctly caught off guard by her lack of enthusiasm. Really, the chit seemed thoroughly indifferent to the fact that any number of women would be swooning with delight to be in her current position.
“Perhaps not, but imagine what a cad I should be painted if I did not fulfill my duty as a gentleman,” he perversely insisted, unaccustomed to such a nonchalant dismissal.
A reluctant smile twitched at the enticing lips, the enchanting dimples once more dancing to life. “I don’t think you care a fig what others think of you,” she retorted shrewdly.
Luke couldn’t prevent a boyish grin. “No, but I do detest my man of affairs,” he cajoled. “This provides a most admirable excuse to fob him off yet again.”
“I fear you shall have to devise another means of eluding your man of affairs, sir.”
“And why should I?” he demanded, the raven head tilting to one side. “This is clearly the best solution to a very unpleasant episode.”
“I would simply prefer the comfort of my own carriage—”
The chiding words were suddenly interrupted as Biddles made an untimely entrance into the scene, his quizzing glass raised to inspect Luke’s rather suggestive hold on the young maiden.
“Egad, Mumford, not another damsel throwing herself at your indifferent feet?” the man drawled. “I believe she is the third today, is she not?”
For once Luke found little amusement in his friend’s droll
sense of humor, and quite clearly the young damsel found even less as she jerked away from his restraining hold and scrambled hastily to her feet. Then, with only the briefest attempt to smooth the gown that had not improved with its intimate acquaintance with the soggy pavement, she lifted her head to regard the small man with a dangerous intensity.
“Pardon me?”
“I was simply pointing out that you happen to be the third young maiden to toss yourself at my friend’s feet today,” Biddles obligingly repeated.
“Toss myself at his feet?”
Ignoring Luke’s thunderous scowl, Biddles waved a hand in a dismissive motion.
“But of course, my dear. It is quite shocking, the lengths to which young chits will go to capture the fancy of the Irresistible Earl.” Biddles gave a small laugh. “But then, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
“Of all the . . . If you believe for one moment that I would be willing to risk my life to gain the attention of a ... a mere man, then you are sadly mistaken.” The woman jutted her chin to a disdainful angle, the eyes flashing silver fury. “In fact, sir, you belong in Bedlam.”
Wishing Biddles were indeed in Bedlam, Luke made an effort to repair the damage.
“I believe my companion is making a poor attempt at a jest.”
“Am I?” Blinking in mock surprise, Biddles tapped his quizzing glass against his forehead. “Somehow I seem to recall you bemoaning the devious debutantes who were incessantly twisting their ankles or stumbling sideways just as you passed. Now, where do you suppose I came up with such an odd fancy?”
A deadly silence fell as the young woman turned to regard Luke as if he belonged in one of the nearby gutters.
“I was mistaken,” she retorted between clenched teeth. “You both belong in Bedlam. Good day, sirs.”
With a dismissive toss of her golden head, the young lady turned with military precision and began marching up the busy street. Immediately, Luke was in her wake, determined to at least apologize for his companion’s unfortunate remarks. But as if fate were on her side, an impatient tilbury swerved past the halted carriage, forcing Luke to jump aside or be run down. Annoyingly, the woman was lost in the crowd by the time the ill-mannered driver had passed.
Not certain why he felt such a surge of frustration at the thought that he might never see the golden-haired beauty again, Luke turned to glare at his friend with obvious irritation.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to explain that bit of nonsense, Biddles?”
The small man gave an offended sniff of his nose. “Really, Mumford, I wish you would decide whether you desire to be rescued from the ploys of cunning females or not. I would just as soon have remained in the carriage. Pembroke is bound to have noticed me by now.”
“I hardly think any female, no matter how cunning, would be willing to fling herself beneath a carriage,” Luke pointed out in dry tones.
A knowing glint entered the piercing brown eyes. “I was not referring to her manner of halting the carriage, Mumford, which was no doubt nothing more than a fortunate accident, but rather her ability to hold you spellbound on a decidedly damp street.”
“Hardly spellbound, Biddles,” Luke denied, refusing to admit that he had not even noticed the street was damp. “More . . . intrigued.”
“Indeed?” Biddles replied with obvious disbelief.
A renegade smile abruptly curved the surprisingly full lips as Luke glanced up the street. Perhaps he had been more than a bit intrigued by the lovely woman, he reluctantly conceded.
“You know, Biddles,” he softly mused, “I have never noted how decidedly partial I am to the scent of violets.”
Two
For what seemed the hundredth time, Cassie glanced through the letter she had discovered hidden in Lady Stanholte’s trunk. And for the hundredth time she ended up shaking her head in frustration.
Clearly, there was no further information to be gained within the nearly unintelligible note. Nothing beyond the fact that the woman who had arrived on her doorstep a fortnight ago, carrying a small boy and a message from her solicitor that she was to be given entrance to the Stanholte estate, possessed the first name of Liza, and that she was acquainted with a former actress named Nell. She also knew that Nell was now comfortably established in a home rented by a clutch-fisted Herbie. But what had seemed such a simple task in Devonshire was proving to be devilishly difficult.
Of course, she acknowledged wryly, she had been thoroughly unacquainted with the peculiar nature of courtesans when she had been in Devonshire. Like most delicately reared ladies, she had been only vaguely acquainted with the scandalous tales of fallen women. She had simply assumed that within days, if not hours, of renting an establishment in the notorious neighborhood she would have stumbled across Nell. And of course, once she had found Nell it would be only a matter of discovering the proper method of convincing her to admit that her friend Liza had never been acquainted with the missing Lord Stanholte, let alone his wife. It had never occurred to her that the inhabitants of the neighborhood would so zealously guard their privacy, or that they would bluntly refuse to admit they had even heard of any actress named Nell or her mysterious friend named Liza.
Now it appeared that she would have to consider a new approach to her dilemma. One that was even more daring than renting a home in such a neighborhood.
Abruptly rising to her feet, Cassie crossed the small bedroom to peer at herself in the oval mirror. At least no one was likely to recognize her, she acknowledged with a rather distasteful grimace. Gone was the distinctly shabby maiden that had arrived in London three days before, and in her place was an elegant courtesan with curls darkened to a brilliant shade of red and artfully arranged about the carefully painted face. Even the gray dress had been discarded in favor of a jade green gown that revealed a startling amount of pale skin. A more than adequate disguise, considering that no one in London was remotely acquainted with her beyond her Man of Business.
Unless, of course, one counted the Irresistible Earl...
Her grimace only deepened at the renegade notion. For three days she had attempted to put aside all thoughts of the dark-haired stranger that had witnessed her folly. After all, there was nothing notable about the incident beyond the fact she had made a perfect fool of herself by wandering onto the busy street like the worst sort of greenhorn.
But while she could sternly tell herself the Irresistible Earl was nothing more than a puffed-up cully, she found it annoyingly difficult to dismiss the memory of the magnificently handsome countenance and wicked blue eyes. More than once she had found her attention straying back to their brief encounter, recalling his captivating smile and seemingly genuine concern for her welfare. She even remembered the feel of his warm hands as they pressed against her shoulders.
Which only proved that she could be as much a sapskull as the next woman, she told herself severely. It was clear the odious earl was a self-opinionated bore who imagined every woman throughout England was wilting to capture his jaded attention. She could only assume the nasty spill had rattled her usual wits to the point of insensibility.
Rather pleased with the logical explanation for her absurd reaction to the Irresistible Earl, Cassie absently tugged at the scandalous neckline of her diaphanous gown, wondering if perhaps she could add a shawl without too much comment, when the door to her bedroom was abruptly thrust open to reveal a large, silver-haired woman with a dour expression.
“Well, I see that you are bound and determined to land us in a bumblebath, Miss Cassie,” the housekeeper chided, her disapproving gaze sweeping over the daring gown.
Cassie heaved a rueful sigh. She had been expecting this encounter since she had ordered the carriage to be sent round. Mary Green had been with the Stanholte family since Cassie was a small child, and rarely missed an opportunity to speak her mind. Still, Cassie did her best to avert the severe scolding that was no doubt in the offing.
“Please, Mary, there is no need to cause a fuss.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed?” Mary placed her hands on her ample hips. “Bad enough that you came to London without a proper chaperon, and then rented an establishment in a neighborhood that is fit only for . . . for . . .”
“I believe they are referred to as Cyprians,” Cassie couldn’t resist supplying with a mock innocent expression. Her efforts were received with a stern frown.
“And now you brazenly appear in public where anyone might recognize you. Well, it is certainly a comfort that your poor mother is not here to see you; that is all I can say.”
“Actually, I have a feeling there is a great deal more you could say,” Cassie retorted with a rather weary smile. “But not now, I beg of you.”
The frown deepened, but this time with concern. “Has something occurred?”
“No, and that is precisely the problem,” Cassie revealed, restlessly pacing toward the window that offered a view of the surrounding neighborhood. “I was so certain when I found that letter that it would be a simple matter to discover the truth. After all, there can not be an overabundance of actresses named Nell who are under the protection of a man named Herbie. But thus far I have done little more than waste my time.”
“I fear I have done little better with the servants,” Mary admitted, her expression one of disgust. “A pretty lot of snobs they are, walking about with their fine London airs. They haven’t the least interest in sharing a nice, homey coz.”
Cassie flashed the older woman a sympathetic glance. Although Mary had disapproved of the scheme from the start, Cassie knew that she would do everything in her power to help her. She was the one ally that Cassie knew she could always depend upon.
“I would think it more prudence than London airs, Mary. It appears the least said, the better in this neighborhood. No doubt a misplaced word could create a most unpleasant scandal or even put an end to a courtesan’s favorable connection. It is a difficulty that I must admit I had not anticipated.”
Mary heaved a visible sigh of relief. “Then you are giving up on this daft notion?”
“Certainly not.” Tossing her vibrant curls, Cassie stiffened her back with a determined motion. It was a sight that made the housekeeper’s heart sink. “I have simply concluded that I cannot confine myself to this house. Our neighbors may be unwilling to speak of this mysterious Nell, but I am quite certain that her acquaintances at the theater will be more forthcoming. And of course, there is bound to be one gentleman among the London ton who will recognize the name of Herbie. Which is precisely why I must make a public appearance in the park today.”
Lord Mumford's Minx Page 2