Lord Mumford's Minx

by Alexandra Ivy

  Luke settled himself more comfortably in the wing chair.

  “The elusive Nell.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I once again bow to your skill.” Luke reached forward to pour himself a healthy measure of brandy and lifted the crystal glass in a silent tribute. “How did you discover he would be here?”

  Biddles accepted his tribute with a roguish grin. “Lutty makes an effort to keep a close watch on the greenhorns with a bit of the ready to lay on a wager. He recalled winning a tidy sum from a gent by the name of Herbie several weeks ago.” He nodded his head in the direction of the table. “I requested he invite him back for another fleecing. Lutty was only too pleased to comply.”

  “Now we can only hope that this is the Herbie we search for.”

  Stretching out his long legs, Luke prepared for a long wait. The evening was still young, and having watched Lutty in action, Luke was aware he used exquisite care not to startle his quarry into flight. It often took hours before the hapless victim realized the extent of his losses.

  Luke, however, underestimated Herbie’s stunning lack of skill with cards, as well as his ability to be goaded into placing a ludicrous wager on a hopeless cause. Within a remarkably short time Herbie was signing a large stack of notes and staggering to his feet.

  Luke and Biddles remained seated until the gentleman had lurched out of the room. Then bowing toward the smug Lutty, they carefully followed behind.

  With casual ease they tracked the unsteady Herbie down the stairs and into the street. They waited in the shadows until he had retrieved his mount and urged him away from the club. Then they gathered their own horses and plodded over the cobblestones at a measured pace. Although Herbie had appeared sunk in shocked misery over his disastrous evening, Luke wanted to take no chances.

  They traveled through several neighborhoods before at last halting at a small establishment. Luke and Biddles remained carefully hidden behind a shabbily trimmed hedge as Herbie moved up the path and pounded on the door. It took but a moment for a housekeeper to pull open the door.

  “Welcome, sir. I shall inform Miss Maggert you have arrived.”

  Luke and Biddles exchanged a glance at the familiar name. This was the actress they had wanted.

  “Tell her not to keep me waiting,” Herbie growled as he entered and slammed the door behind him.

  On the point of dismounting to find a more favorable view of the house, Luke was halted as a side door opened to reveal a young lady with dark curls and a tall gentleman with a familiar scar down one cheek. Luke stiffened as he heard Biddles give a low hiss.

  He longed to charge through the hedge and choke a confession from the evil man. Or perhaps beat it out of him. It was only the knowledge that, as satisfying as it might be to wrap his hands about the villain’s neck, it would not cure Miss Stanholte’s troubles that kept him huddled in secret as Nell glanced nervously about her.

  “You must go,” she whispered as she wrapped a silk robe closer around her full body.

  “Do not play me for a fool, Nell,” he rasped as he glared down at her white face.

  “I have told you I do not know why Miss Stanholte should want me.”

  “I think you do.”

  “No, please—”

  Her words were cut off as a riding crop was pressed to her throat.

  “Have you contacted her?” the gentleman demanded.

  Her harsh breathing filled the night air. “No.”

  “But you have contacted Liza.”

  “I only warned her to be careful,” she pleaded.

  The man laughed with cold cruelty. “It is you that should be careful, Nell. I will not tolerate any interference with my plans.”

  “You don’t frighten me,” the actress breathed with surprising courage.

  “Then you are a fool.” With lightning speed, the riding crop was replaced by a gloved hand that curved around her throat. “I could break you as easily as a twig.”

  Both Luke and Biddles prepared to leap forward. They could not stand aside and watch the madman abuse the helpless actress.

  “Let me go,” Nell gasped, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Heed my warning, Nell.” As swiftly as he had attacked, the gentleman stepped back. “It would be a shocking waste for such a lovely wench to be found floating in the Thames.”

  Giving a choked cry, Nell turned and rushed back into the house. At the same moment, the man sprinted toward the back of the house and disappeared.

  Luke instinctively prepared to follow when common sense warned it would be futile. The streets were far too deserted not to alert a man on his guard that he was being followed. Once again Luke would be forced to bide his time. But at least they had discovered Nell.

  Turning, he discovered Biddles calmly returning his gun to his pocket.

  “That gentleman would be greatly improved with a sword lodged through his bowels,” he murmured.

  “My thoughts as well.” Luke grimaced. “Come. There is little more we can do tonight.”

  Ten

  It was a lovely afternoon. One of those rare spring days when the sky appeared a translucent blue and the air smelled of daffodils.

  Not that Miss Stanholte took much notice of the beauty surrounding her. Seated next to Lord Mumford in the open carriage, she silently seethed at the endless flirtatious glances and bold attempts to claim the attention of the gentleman at her side.

  Really, she thought as they threaded their way through the crowded park, one would think Lord Mumford was the only gentleman in all of London. They could not pass a carriage without some woman or other calling his name and pleading for a moment of his time.

  She refused to admit that he was indeed the most splendidly handsome man about. Attired in a dark blue coat and leather breeches, he easily cast the less notable gentlemen in the shade. She only knew that she was becoming increasingly annoyed at being plagued by the bevy of eager females.

  Sensing her escort’s curious regard, Cassie reluctantly turned to meet the narrowed blue gaze.

  “Do you intend to sulk the entire afternoon?” he at last inquired with a quirk of his lips.

  She felt heat fill her face as she realized he was well aware of her annoyance. For goodness sakes, he would begin to think she was jealous if she were not careful.

  “I am not sulking,” she sternly denied.

  He chuckled at her patent lie. “Very well. Tell me, did you enjoy Lord Westwood’s poetry?”

  He was clearly in a mood to tease, and she determinedly suppressed a grimace. The poetry had been quite ghastly. For hours Lord Westwood had droned on about the colors of a sunset and the taste of a freshly caught salmon. And to make matters worse, he had composed several long verses dedicated to her and her supposed beauty. Cassie had been sunk in mortification as every eye had turned in her direction.

  Her only consolation had been that Lord Mumford had not been there to witness her embarrassment. Now she sighed in resignation. Trust the wretched man to have somehow discovered her discomfiting ordeal.

  “It was quite ... delightful,” she forced herself to say. “He is a most accomplished gentleman.”

  His smile only widened. “Yes, indeed. My aunt informs me that he composed an ode to you. I believe he compared you to a dove.”

  A hint of mockery in his tone made her arch a haughty brow.

  “Do you find that amusing, my lord?”

  “I find it ludicrous,” he corrected without hesitation, his gaze sweeping over her features to linger on the militant line of her full lips. “Any lady less like a dove I have yet to encounter.”

  “You no doubt would have preferred that he likened me to a shrew?”

  “You certainly possess your shrewish moments, but I prefer a swan,” he startled her by admitting in low tones. “Graceful, proud and independent.”

  A sudden shyness had her ducking her head in an unconsciously coy manner. Just when she thought she was beginning to know Lord Mumford, he managed to catch her off
guard.

  “As you said, it was all quite ludicrous,” she muttered.

  For a moment he was silent as he studied her fragile profile. Then, as they turned to a less crowded part of the park, he leaned forward.

  “I am curious, Miss Stanholte. Is there a gentleman in Devonshire you intend to marry?”

  She stiffened at his intimate questioning. She was unaccustomed to discussing her life or emotions with anyone, let alone a disturbingly attractive gentleman.

  “Sir—”

  “Yes, I know, I am impertinent.” He negligently waved aside his one of many faults. “Is there?”

  “No.”

  His gaze narrowed in a probing manner. “Perhaps you prefer to capture a London gentleman?”

  He sounded almost as if he were accusing her, and Cassie bristled with indignation.

  “I have no wish to capture any gentleman,” she retorted in sharp tones. “My only desire is to return to my estate and live there in peace.”

  Strangely, this did not appear to satisfy him any more than the suspicion that she was stalking through London in search of gullible prey. Although the reason why he should be so interested in her marital state eluded her.

  “Alone?”

  “Certainly.” She eyed him squarely. “You reside on your own.”

  He gave a small shrug. “For now.”

  His response startled her, and she found herself frowning with disbelief. “Do you intend to wed?”

  He appeared to carefully contemplate his answer, and Cassie discovered herself oddly holding her breath.

  “It is not something I have given a great deal of thought until now,” he admitted, his expression thoughtful. “I suppose in due time I shall have need of an heir.”

  Her breath rushed out at his words, almost as if she were relieved.

  “A marriage of convenience.”

  “Oh, no,” he swiftly denied. “I shall demand more than mere convenience from my marriage.”

  Her gaze unknowingly narrowed. “And what is that?”

  “Companionship, joy . . .” His voice lowered to a husky note. “Love.”

  A wholly unexpected stab of pain lanced through her heart. It was certainly none of her concern if he wished to fall in love a dozen times a day. That didn’t, however, prevent her from envisioning him locked in the embrace of an exquisite beauty.

  In an effort to hide her absurd reaction, she gave a forced laugh.

  “Love?”

  With a deliberate motion, he reached out to brush a small leaf that had fallen onto her bare shoulder. A blaze of heat rushed through her body at the brief touch.

  “Just because I do not go about spouting ghastly poetry does not signify I have no heart.”

  “I thought you considered debutantes a fate worse than the hangman’s noose.” Her voice was annoyingly uneven.

  “Only those debutantes who regard me as the prize fox in their particular hunt,” he retorted, closely watching the color rise and fade in her cheeks. “I should like to think that someday I shall be as fortunate as my parents in their marriage.” His dark head tilted to one side. “Did your parents marry for convenience?”

  As always, Cassie discovered herself retreating from the painful memories of her parents. Even after all this time, she found it difficult to think of the past.

  How did anyone ever become accustomed to such a loss? The shock of their deaths had left her alone and all too aware of how easily happiness could be snatched away.

  “No,” she at last breathed, her expression unconsciously vulnerable. “My mother was the youngest daughter of the local vicar and not at all suitable for my father’s family. They expected him to follow in the Stanholte tradition and marry an heiress. Eventually they eloped.”

  It was a fairy-tale story that Cassie had demanded be told time and time again: her beautiful mother stealing the heart of the local lord, and he in turn romantically sweeping her into a secret wedding. Quite enchanting for a young, susceptible girl.

  “And they were happy?” he asked softly.

  “Very happy.”

  The fine gray eyes darkened as she recalled the laughter and fun that had once filled the estate. She had never thought it would end.

  But it did, and all she had was the estate. Now even that was being threatened.

  A gentle hand softly brushed her cheek.

  “I have made you sad,” Lord Mumford murmured with genuine regret.

  “No . . .” She gave a small shake of her head, oddly disappointed when the comforting fingers moved away. “I simply miss them.”

  “And yet you choose to be alone,” he pointed out.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Cassie attempted to regain her composure. The past was gone. It was the future that concerned her now.

  “I believe we came here to discuss what you have discovered?” she reminded him in stiff tones.

  As if sensing her withdrawal, Lord Mumford smiled in a rueful manner and signaled to his groom to pull aside.

  “Very well. Shall we take a stroll?” Waiting until the carriage came to a halt, he stepped down and turned to lift her out and gently place her on the path. The scent of warm male skin and tangy cologne made her head spin. It did nothing to help when he firmly placed her hand on his arm and began leading her through the sun-dappled park. They walked in silence until they were assured no one could overhear their conversation; then he gazed down at her face with a somber expression. “Do you know a tall, dark gentleman with a scar on his right cheek?”

  She frowned in confusion. “Why?”

  “Biddies and I tracked Toby to his favorite theater, and he was conversing with the rather dastardly gentleman.”

  A faint, annoyingly elusive memory brushed the edges of her mind. A scar. She remembered .. a tall man standing in her father’s library. There had been a loud argument, all the more startling because her father never raised his voice. She had peeked through an open window and seen the man holding his cheek as if he had been struck.

  “There is something,” she said, straining to capture the fuzzy image. “A man with a bleeding cheek . . . oh, I cannot remember.”

  “Was he in Devonshire?”

  “Yes, he was in our home,” she confirmed, her brow furrowed. “Do you think he might know Liza or Nell?”

  He gave a decisive nod of his head. “I am certain of it. I am also certain that he is the villain who is determined to steal your estate.”

  Her steps faltered as she gazed up at him in disbelief.

  “Why did you not capture him?” she demanded.

  His brows rose in mild protest. “Always presuming I would not be killed in such an absurd endeavor, what would you have me do with him?”

  Was he being deliberately thick-skulled?

  “Take him to the magistrate and reveal what you have learned.”

  “Unfortunately I cannot simply accuse a man to get him locked in Newgate. I must have some proof of his crime.”

  Her frown only deepened. She wanted to argue, but even she had to realize he was correct. Without some evidence of the man’s connection to Lady Stanholte, they could do nothing.

  “Then we are no further than we were before,” she said, her frustration at the seemingly insurmountable difficulties bubbling to the fore. “I should have remained where I was. At least then I might have a hope of discovering Nell.”

  Without warning, Lord Mumford came to a halt, and taking hold of her hands, pulled her to face him. Lifting her head, she encountered his simmering blue gaze.

  “Can you not trust me?” he demanded in persuasive tones.

  They were so close she could feel the heat from his body and see the darkening of his beard beneath smooth skin. For a crazed moment she was tempted to lift her hand and run her fingers along the strong line of his jaw.

  With a wrench, she pulled her thoughts from the unsettling image.

  “It is ... difficult,” she acknowledged with a shiver. “I am unaccustomed to depending upon anyone but myself.�
�

  He looked deep into her eyes, as if he could see into the pain that had held her prisoner since her parents’ deaths.

  “I will not fail you,” he promised as he gently squeezed her fingers.

  Lost in the velvet blue eyes, Cassie might have remained gaping into his countenance for hours if they had not been interrupted by a gentleman attired in a fitted coat and glossed boots. Hearing the approaching footsteps, Cassie turned to regard the pleasant-featured gentleman with a thatch of blond curls.

  “Miss Stanholte.” He bowed, his smile quite charming. “I had hoped I might see you today.” As an obvious afterthought, he nodded toward her companion. “Lord Mumford.”

  Luke’s features hardened with displeasure. “Ghampford.”

  His duty done, the young nobleman returned his attention to Cassie.

  “Do you attend the theater this evening?”

  Telling herself that she was relieved by the intrusion, Cassie managed a smile.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then I shall make certain to attend as well,” Lord Champford promised, his gaze sweeping over her elegant muslin gown. “May I say you are looking remarkably lovely today? Quite as beautiful as spring itself.”

  Hearing Lord Mumford’s exasperated grunt at the flowery compliment, Cassie deliberately fluttered her long lashes. After enduring the sickening number of females tossing themselves before Lord Mumford, it seemed only fair that she have at least one admirer.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she simpered in the manner of the other debutantes. “I was particularly doubtful about this shade of violet.”

  Lord Champford appeared gratifyingly enchanted. “It is absolutely splendid. Quite perfect.”

  She lowered her gaze. “You are too kind.”

  “It is so refreshing to meet a maiden who appreciates the charm of modesty,” he insisted in fervent tones. “So many young ladies are shockingly lacking in propriety these days, do you not agree?”

  The irony was not lost on Lord Mumford, who gave a sudden laugh.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Stanholte is a great believer in propriety,” he taunted as her face filled with heat. Then, clearly having enough of the nauseating flirtation, he took Cassie’s arm firmly in his grip. “Now I fear you will have to excuse us.”