Her Officer and Gentleman

by Karen Hawkins

  Beatrice flushed guiltily. “Just because I am married does not mean I do not appreciate a handsome man when I see one. Especially one with eyes like that and such a smile. Oh Beth, there is something almost angelic about him.”

  “Angelic? I was about to suggest he was Satan’s own!”

  “There is bit of a devil to him as well, make no doubt. But then he will smile and…” Beatrice sighed, fanning herself slightly as she did so. “All of this makes him even more dangerous, which is why I am going to find out all I can.”

  “About what?”

  “About him, of course! I know a little, but not enough. As handsome as he is and as thoroughly as he’s been chased since he arrived in London, I daresay there are hundreds of women who’ve managed to worm some sort of information out of him. I shall begin with the dowagers and work my way to the fallen women and just gossip, gossip, gossip with the lot of them until someone tells me something.”

  “That is quite a sacrifice, I am sure.”

  Beatrice patted Beth’s hand. “Anything for you, dear.”

  “I’m certain.”

  “I have no doubt that there are any number of skeletons in that man’s closet. He fairly radiates danger and sultry intent and…” Beatrice shivered. “I vow, but I need to go home and see Harry this very minute. Meanwhile”—she fixed a suddenly solemn gaze on Beth—“I want your promise not to see Westerville again. Not until I’ve made some inquiries into his character. Perhaps—just perhaps, mind you—I’ve been wrong. I mean, all I really know about him is that his parentage isn’t what it should be. Other than that…” She shrugged. “The rest is probably just rumor.”

  Beth looked forward. “What rumor?”

  “Well…” Beatrice glanced around, as if someone might overhear her in her own cabriolet, before leaning forward to say in a loud whisper, “He was not born into his title, you know. Some people say the viscount was once a highwayman. Others say he was involved in things much more dangerous, smuggling on the coast or the diamond trade in Africa. Whatever it was, I daresay it was a matter of economy. A bastard son with no father…well, it couldn’t have been easy. Now, of course, he’s so wealthy it almost hurts! Lady Chiltendon said he was as wealthy as the prince, maybe more so.” Beatrice sighed. “It’s a pity his lineage is in question. Your grandfather would never countenance such a match.”

  Beth looked down at her hand where the viscount had pressed his lips. The skin still tingled, her arm slightly numb as if she’d been holding it over her head too long. Rich, was he? Then he was not pursuing her for her dowry. An odd relief flooded through her at that; she hadn’t even realized until that moment how much the thought had bothered her.

  So why was he pursuing her? She frowned down at her closed fist, the paper tightly held between her fingers. For some reason, she was struck with the memory of his expression when he’d asked about Grandfather. Of all the men she’d met in the last few weeks, none of them had questioned her about that. Not a single one. Which made the viscount’s questions all the more odd.

  “Beth? Did you hear me?”

  “I beg your pardon, but I am afraid I was woolgathering.”

  Beatrice leaned forward, concern etched in her gaze. “Do you promise not to see him until I can discover more? I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think him so attractive but…He even has me looking forward to meeting him again!” Beatrice made such a comical face that Beth laughed.

  “He’s dangerous.” Beth pulled open her reticule and pushed the paper into it, then tied it closed. “Quite frankly, I think the less I see of the viscount—at least until we discover more about him—the better it will be for us all.”

  Beatrice heaved a relieved sigh. “Thank you! I know it’s difficult to understand, but better to find out the ugly truth now rather than later, when it might be a bit more painful. You are an heiress, after all, and perhaps the rumors of his wealth are unfounded.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No,” Beatrice confessed. “Frankly, there are some things that puzzle me about the viscount. A lot of things.”

  Forcing a smile, Beth turned the subject to Beatrice’s new cabriolet and how well it had run. Beatrice couldn’t resist such a topic, and she was soon expounding on how dear Harry was to give her such a luxurious present and how she wished she could think of something to give him in return.

  Beth listened with half an ear, her mind still wrapped up in the viscount. She’d give Beatrice a week to discover the viscount’s intentions and then, if she found nothing, Beth would set out on her own.

  She’d always loved a good mystery, one of the reasons she read so much, and if the viscount had something to hide, she’d find it.

  As Grandfather liked to say, there wasn’t much one couldn’t do, if one but put one’s mind to it.

  Chapter 7

  When preparing a gentleman’s clothing, it is important to ascertain the event. One dresses quite differently for a hunt than one does for a ball.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  The trouble with sleeping was that one had no control over one’s dreams, a rather bleary-eyed Beth decided the next morning. It was not really a horrid problem in and of itself. It was just that it made waking so disappointing, like discovering that instead of duck in mint sauce for supper, there was only thick, cold porridge.

  She sat now at her dresser, pulling a heavy silver brush through her hair and absently gazing at herself in the mirror. She should not meet Lord Westerville in secret, and certainly not without a chaperone. Still…it was the British Museum and not some locale of debauchery like a gaming hell or…or…or…

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. What other debauchery locales were there besides gaming hells? There were houses of ill repute, to be certain—places where women of unsavory character might reside. And then there were…What else was there? Well, it didn’t matter, really. Westerville had to know perfectly well that such clandestine behavior could have consequences. Serious consequences. Consequences like being forced to marry.

  Beth curled her nose at her reflection in the mirror. That would certainly be a horrid way to wed, at the end of a sword as in a bad play. Of course, being married to a man like Westerville…A tiny shiver went down her spine. That might be something altogether different.

  She turned her head and began to brush her hair over her other shoulder. It was so long it almost touched her lap, the honey blond and lighter strands curling a little at the ends. Meeting Westerville would be a very risky, very intrepid, very foolish endeavor indeed.

  Her gaze found the clock on the dresser, and she noted that it was not yet nine. Plenty of time to go, if she was going to, which she wasn’t.

  Or was she? Somehow, even though she knew the potential pitfalls, she couldn’t make herself give up the faintest hope that…well, that she might actually do it.

  The truth was that she wanted to see him again. And not where a million prying eyes could evaluate their every move. She wanted him to herself, to see if perhaps he felt the same tremors of excitement that she did. But especially to discover why he was so interested in Grandfather. Something odd was at work there; she could almost taste it. For Grandfather’s sake, if not her own, she needed to discover what was afoot with the handsome viscount. It was entirely possible the man had nefarious plans, for his past was certainly shadowy enough to suggest such a thing.

  She paused, the silver brush held motionless at her temple as she recalled her dreams from last night. Unsettling dreams. Vague dreams. Dreams of Westerville and his mouth on hers. What was it about the man? He was certainly handsome, devastatingly so. With his pale green eyes and black hair, he was the epitome of devilish good looks that could make a woman imagine herself wildly in love.

  But Beth was not like that. Her pragmatic nature did not lend itself to such romantic goings-on. Indeed, though she appreciated the viscount’s disturbing handsomeness, it was
something else that drew her hither. It was the challenge. The excitement. The forbidden air of his very masculine—

  “My lady?”

  Beth started, whirling around to see Annie standing almost behind her. Beth pressed a hand to her thudding heart. “Goodness! You frightened me!”

  “I don’t know why when I’ve been natterin’ at ye all the way from the dressin’ room. Are ye feelin’ well?”

  “Well?”

  Annie glanced at Beth’s hand where she held the brush motionless at her temple.

  Beth replaced the brush on the dresser. “I am quite well, thank you. I was just thinking about something.”

  “Right deeply, from the looks of it,” Annie said, her brows lowered. “Ye’re already dressed, too.”

  Beth smiled a little at the hint of censure in Annie’s voice. “I can dress myself, you know.”

  “The question is not whether ye can, but whether ye should.” Annie looked her up. Then down. “I was right yesterday; ’tis a man,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Beth looked down at her walking gown of blue muslin. “How can you tell? I mean,” she amended hastily, “of course it’s not a man, but why would you think such a thing?”

  “Because just last week ye said the neckline on that gown was too low. And now, here ye are, a-wearin’ it. It’s a man.”

  Beth made an exasperated noise. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Annie picked up the brush. “Would ye like me to put up yer hair fer whatever man it is that ye’re after?”

  “I am not after any man.” At least, not to dally with. She just wished to discover the viscount’s motives. The more she thought of it, the more she realized that the viscount had not sought her out solely to pay her compliments. Which was a sad thing, really. Had he seriously been interested in her, she might have rethought her plans. But that was neither here nor there—he had other motives; she was certain of it.

  Though she was sadly flattered by his attention, she was not naive enough to think he’d fallen senseless at her feet because of her blond tresses or any other such nonsense.

  No, the man was after something, and if it wasn’t her fortune, what was it? She frowned. Upon catching Annie’s considering gaze in the mirror, Beth sniffed. “I am not after any man. If you must know, I am embarking on a Mission of Truth.”

  Annie twisted Beth’s hair into a neat knot at the base of her neck, and then pinned it all in place with a blue silk rose to one side. “If ye’re not after a man, then there’s at least a man involved in yer efforts, whatever they may be.”

  The maid stepped back to admire her handiwork. “’Tis not so horrid, bein’ after a man. I’ve been after one or two meself. My second husband, Clyde Darrow, was a right shy fellow. I had to almost toss myself at his head before he would so much as look at me.” Annie patted her red curls. “But when he did finally notice me, he never stopped.”

  “Sounds like true love.”

  “Oh, ’twasn’t love at all. ’Twas more lust with a little fondness tossed in. Still, I was powerful sad when he died.” Annie paused and looked at the ceiling as if trying to remember the details. “Killed by the ague, he was.”

  “I thought he fell off the roof trying to fix a loose tile.”

  “That was me first husband, Peter Pool.”

  “Ah. Sorry.”

  “Don’t think on it. I get them confused meself. No, Clyde caught the ague after a cockfight in Stafford-Upon-Wey. Would ye believe the fool wagered on a bird named Bad Luck?” Annie scowled. “’Tis like throwin’ yerself under the wheels of a carriage, spittin’ at fate in such a rash manner.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “No. Not at first. I grew to be fond of him, of course. But no more.”

  “Then why did you wish to marry him?”

  Annie looked surprised. “I was a widow, weren’t I? There he was, unwed and makin’ a good living with no one to cook his supper nor warm his bed. And we was quite fond of one another, too.”

  “And was that enough? Just…fondness?”

  “Depends on what else ye might have in common,” Annie said with a wicked twinkle.

  “I always thought love was crucial for a marriage to be successful. At least, that’s what Grandfather has always told me.”

  “And yer father? What did he say?”

  “I was young when he died. All I really remember about him was that he was quite busy trying to read every book in Grandfather’s library and…well, he wasn’t well the last several years of his life.” He hadn’t been happy, either, though he’d tried not to let it show. And Charlotte…Beth remembered how often her stepmama appeared at the dinner table with eyes reddened from crying. It seemed as if Charlotte was always unhappy about something, though Beth wondered if perhaps there had been a rift of some sort between her father and stepmama. It would explain a lot of things, now that she thought about it.

  She’d even once asked Grandfather about it. He’d replied that Father had been deeply in love with Beth’s mother and he shouldn’t have been so quick to think he could replace her, especially with a nitwit like Charlotte. Beth had winced to hear such a sharp opinion, but she privately thought it was probably quite true. Father had succumbed to loneliness and married someone unsuited to life in Massingale House.

  “Love or no,” Annie said stoutly, “there’s plenty to be said for marriage.”

  “Like what?”

  “It gives a name to yer children.”

  “I know, I know. That part I understand. But why should anyone wish to marry other than that?”

  Annie put the brush back on the table with a definite snap. “Ye don’t know why people should marry? Why, because ’tis the way God meant ’em to be!”

  “Without love?”

  “Love can come or love cannot come. So long as ’tis a good man and ye’re a good woman, ye’ll be happy enough.”

  Beth didn’t think she liked that answer. “Happy enough” was not how she wished to spend the rest of her life. Of course, she didn’t really know what she wanted to do with the rest of her life…but “happy enough” wasn’t it.

  Annie sniffed. “I’ve married plenty and only been in love once, meself. With my third husband, Oliver MacOwen, Now that was love.”

  “The one who died while herding pigs and they ate him?”

  “No, no. ’Twas the other way around. The pigs didn’t eat him; Oliver ate bad sausage and that’s what did him in. ’Tis no way to die, let me tell ye.”

  “I can’t imagine it would be.” Beth wondered what it would be like to be married to Viscount Westerville. Certainly they’d have passion, for she felt definite waves of it every time he was near. She was fairly certain he felt it, too. But what else would they have? Perhaps a shared sense of humor; she’d caught a bit of that yesterday afternoon. But that was all.

  Yet another reason to spend one more paltry hour with the man, she decided. Just to prove that he was not the sort of man one should marry. She had to smile a little at her faulty reasoning; if there was one thing she already knew, it was that the dark and dangerous Viscount Westerville was not the sort of man one should marry. He was, however, unusually interested in Grandfather.

  The clock chimed the quarter hour and Beth looked at the clock. If she went, she was taking a chance with her reputation. If she didn’t go, she would never discover why Westerville’s interest in Grandfather was for good or ill.

  Beth glanced at the maid. “Annie, I believe I shall visit the museum today.”

  “The museum? Again? Ye just went a week ago!”

  “There’s a new display.”

  Annie shook her head. “I don’t see what ye find interestin’ about looking at things that once’t belonged to a bunch of dead people, but I suppose ye enjoy it well enough.”

  “I love the museum.”

  “Off with ye then,” Annie said, straightening the bottles and brushes on the dressing table. “And don’t forget to smile.” She cur
led her top lip and tapped on her front tooth. “Men like a woman with a good set of nippers.”

  “I never said I was going to meet a man. I am going to the museum though.” Beth stood. “But since we are talking about it, how do you know you are in love?”

  Annie snorted, opening the wardrobe door and removing a mint green pelisse. “Law, my lady! That’s as easy as they come. If ye find yerself thinkin’ perhaps ye have the ague, but ye’ve no fever, then ye’re in love.”

  “It feels like the ague?” Beth pulled the pelisse over her gown and buttoned it up. “Every time?”

  “More oft than naught.”

  Goodness. What a horrid thing. “No wonder people run from it.” Beth opened the door. “I shall return soon. Please have the blue and cream silk visiting gown ready. I’m to see Lady Chudrowe this afternoon.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Beth left her room, her mind racing. She would meet the viscount only this one time, and then—never again. Surely one more meeting would not put her in too great a danger of being seduced.

  She took the stairs quickly and dashed through the foyer to where the carriage awaited. The day was gray and overcast, a heavy wind lifting her gown and swirling it about her ankles. Beth shivered a little and pulled her pelisse closer.

  “My lady?” the groom asked as he opened the door to the carriage.

  “The British Museum.”

  “Of course, madam.” Within moments, the carriage was rocking its way through the heavily traveled roads of London. They reached the British Museum quite a bit earlier than ten. The coachman looked uncertain when he saw no one there to meet her. Beth had to inform him rather haughtily that her party was already inside and that naturally none of them was waiting for her on the steps as it was about to rain.