The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

by Virginia Heath

  The Duke of Westbridge couldn’t ignore her. Clarissa had made sure of that. She was always in his line of sight. Front and centre in his mind. ‘When I have him all to myself in a few weeks, I intend to change that.’ Out of the bonds of loyalty, Lady Olivia had not received an invitation to Penelope’s forthcoming house party, which gave Clarissa five days to force the issue before the Duke retired to the country for the summer. If the initial gentle hints did not work, she fully intended to issue him with an ultimatum. A stark one. If he failed to put a ring on her finger before he left, then Clarissa was determined to walk away and find another protector to hide her failings behind. An older gentleman or a less impressive younger peer who would be easily impressed by her connections. Unaccomplished Incomparables couldn’t be choosy. Any husband was better than none and once they were married he’d be stuck with her and duty-bound to keep her secrets.

  Obviously, she sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Without the constant physical reminder of the younger Incomparable, she planned to reacquaint the Duke with all the reasons why he was first attracted to her—but enough was enough. A stand had to be made for the sake of her own sanity and for her tenuous reputation. If Westbridge didn’t want her, then she would have to swiftly find a suitable peer who did. By hook or by crook, she fully intended to be a married woman by Christmas. In the New Year she was twenty-four and the sad shelf of spinsterhood loomed on the horizon. Besides, all this additional effort was wearing her out and her poor nerves were so frayed by the constant and growing fear of her secret being discovered, she was coming to doubt they would ever return to normal.

  ‘About that...’ Penelope couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Penhurst has insisted she come. I had to send Lady Olivia an invitation this morning. I’ve already received her acceptance.’

  The floor suddenly whipped from beneath her feet, all Clarissa could do was gape. ‘But you promised, Penny!’

  ‘I know I did and I feel awful, but Westbridge specifically asked my husband to include her and, as his friend, my husband refused to hear my arguments. You know Penhurst can be a beastly tyrant when riled.’

  As Clarissa had seen the occasional bruises on her gentle friend’s arms which were testament to that fact, she took pity on her. She’d never liked Penhurst, not from the outset, and had cautioned her friend not to accept his proposal all those years ago. As her dear papa had always said, a man who has to resort to raising his hand to a woman was no man and Penny’s dictatorial viscount was everything Clarissa despised. A pompous, selfish, nasty bully. On more than one occasion, she had prayed for her friend’s early widowhood and would continue to do so until Penhurst was mouldering in the ground. ‘It doesn’t matter, Penny.’ But it did. She would have to rethink all her plans now. ‘I know you tried your best and it’s nothing catastrophic that cannot be fixed.’ The simpering Lady Olivia might miraculously find her own gentleman in the interim and leave Clarissa’s in peace.

  ‘I will still help you.’ Her loyal friend threaded one arm tightly through hers. ‘I will occupy all Lady Olivia’s time and keep her from underfoot. Between the pair of us, we will make Westbridge see sense.’ Penny shot daggers at the pouting Olivia. ‘Very soon you will be married to the man of your dreams.’

  ‘Penelope!’ At the sound of her husband’s voice, Penny snapped to attention and turned into the cowering wife again.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ Had an endearment ever sounded so pained?

  ‘Come. I have someone I wish you to meet.’ They turned to see the gentlemen part like the Dead Sea, revealing the Earl of Upminster and a very familiar face. Gone was the beard and the pale complexion. A scar she had not seen before marred his cheek, but bizarrely the imperfection gave him an air of the dangerous and intrepid in this room full of cosseted peers. In his expertly tailored coat and impeccable sage-silk waistcoat, which perfectly set off his broad shoulders and strong arms, Mr Leatham looked positively splendid. Clarissa smiled warmly only to see his face blank and cold. His eyes though, issued a stark, urgent message she didn’t quite understand.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to Lord Millcroft.’

  ‘Lord Millcroft?’

  Instantly he surged forward and took her hand, ignoring the other ladies and the correct protocol. He squeezed it tightly and stared imploringly into her eyes as he kissed the back of her glove. The thin layer of fabric made no difference because she still felt his touch everywhere just as she had the last time. As before, a simple touch was positively thrilling—but then she had seen him wearing only his breeches and that splendid sight had rather clouded her judgement.

  ‘Lord Sebastian Millcroft. Lately of the Antipodes. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss...?’

  Chapter Five

  For the last seven hours, and after giving himself a very stern talking to, Seb had been centring himself. It was a process he often did when assuming the persona of someone else and one which was usually successful. As someone else, he could hide behind a veneer. Within his mind he constructed the character, the way they thought, spoke, their particular idiosyncrasies. The layers which created a believable cover and separated the shy by-blow from Norfolk from the mission at hand.

  Lord Millcroft was aloof, arrogant and judgemental. He was a man’s man, preferring to talk business or discuss the brash and bawdy things gentlemen did when gathered together behind closed doors. Millcroft was a man who preferred to play cards or drink or socialise with other men in the sanctuary of White’s or Brooks’s. Seb had no problem with any of those things because they also served to disguise his awkward shyness around the fairer sex. A shyness which never plagued him around men, where his fierce pride came to the fore. In his head, no matter who they were, he strove to be their equal even if he didn’t always feel it. Therefore, he would work to that strength and try to ignore the swathes of ladies at the same events. Lord Millcroft wasn’t on the hunt for a wife, he was an eager investor on the lookout for ways to swell his fortunes, so it stood to reason he would have no interest in the ladies whatsoever.

  It was a canny plan and would cover his shyness perfectly. By the time his preparations were done, he was quietly confident he could pull this charade off just as he had countless others beforehand and had stridden into the Earl of Upminster’s ballroom radiating haughty indifference with the very best of them.

  He’d had a little moment when he had first encountered the crowd. It was not the crush which bothered him, more the unpalatable fact that this was a social occasion, filled with those who had been born to consider themselves better than most and his sort especially, and that Seb would actually have to take some part in the socialising rather than merely watch it from a distance. After he had given himself another stern talking to and noticed that many of the gentlemen paid scant attention to the ladies anyway, the flapping eagles in his stomach became sparrows.

  Upminster introduced him to several people as they made slow progress around the room and Seb responded in character. He engaged with the men and simply nodded politely to the ladies. The convoluted preamble served to further calm his nerves, to the extent that the sparrows were mere butterflies by the time he met Viscount Penhurst and his circle of friends. He greeted them as equals, bowing only slightly lower to the Duke in the party on principle, and happily engaged in the sort of male-orientated conversation he had planned meticulously for.

  Icy calm.

  Calculated.

  Completely in control.

  Then he’d spied her next to Penhurst’s wife and those lofty plans flew out of the window. Instead of avoiding the women altogether, he’d had to think on his feet and fast. Rather than treating Gem with the haughty indifference he had practised in front of the mirror, he had rushed at her like a man recently speared deep by Cupid’s arrow. He’d grabbed her hand, gazed up at her beseechingly and, to all intents and purposes, declared to the entire ballroom he was suddenly, openly smitten and eager to get
better acquainted with a woman he had technically only laid eyes on a few seconds before.

  Besotted and desperate to woo! Two states which were as far away from where Seb felt comfortable as it was humanly possible to be. He was also fearful of her potential reaction to his blatant lie and furious at himself and his superior for this potentially calamitous oversight. Fennimore should never have put him in this position! A stable, a garden, the kitchens, even the sewers were better places for his covert talents and dubious lineage. In this kaleidoscope of genteel poppycock he was seriously out of his depth, especially if he now had to play the role of ardent suitor.

  ‘Lady Clarissa Beaumont.’ She inclined her head graciously. ‘I am intrigued to meet you, my lord. And so fresh from the Antipodes, too. I look forward to hearing all about it. They sound like such a fascinating place...when the furthest I have been is Norfolk.’

  As barbs went, hers were perfect. Much like her. Tonight she was stunning. So stunning the flapping eagles returned with a vengeance and pecked at his heart. She stepped back and Seb was aware of her eyes on him as he was introduced to Penhurst’s wife. At least it appeared she had given him a grace period before she turned him over to the wolves, yet the very real possibility only served to make his pulse race faster than it already had been before he had set eyes on her. The hours he’d spent rehearsing had been wiped the second he had and he’d very nearly broken character and fled. Already the tips of his ears felt warm; his tongue threatened to fail at any moment and he had no idea now how the mysterious Lord Millcroft would continue to behave because he didn’t know this character at all. Seb would have to make it up as he went along.

  Not his strong suit as the bullet hole could attest.

  This was a complication neither he nor the wily Fennimore had foreseen. The rest of society might well have never seen him, his dreadful brother might not recognise him, but the Gem had tormented his thoughts ever since he’d met her, teased him and seen him half-naked, drunk and slurring just a few short weeks before. One wrong word and his mission was over before it had started; worse, it might encourage Penhurst and Camborne to cover their tracks and warn the Boss that the King’s Elite were on his tail. The combination of inwardly dying from mortification, the purely male and visceral reaction at seeing her again and the very real fear he had just seriously jeopardised the whole investigation in the process caused him actual physical pain. His damn heart was clattering so fast it was jarring his recently healed bullet hole and the acid churning in his stomach was so potent it would dissolve iron nails.

  He needed to get her alone. Lord only knew what he would tell her, but somehow he would ensure her silence.

  He had to.

  ‘Did I mention that Millcroft here is on the hunt for suitable investment opportunities?’ Upminster was playing his part perfectly and it nudged Seb to do the same. For the time being he was impotent to do anything else.

  ‘He is?’ Penhurst replied with an air of boredom. ‘What types of investment?’

  ‘Whichever yields the most coin in the shortest time, my lord.’ Seb offered the man a knowing smile. ‘I am a man with little patience for the long term.’

  Penhurst’s thin lip curled. ‘A speculator, then?’

  ‘If that is the polite terms for a man who enjoys making money, then, yes, I am—and proudly so. Although I know here in town most people are squeamish about admitting to it, especially as land is considered to be the foundation of good society. But as I have no land, and have never been particularly good, I make no excuses for funding my lifestyle through canny investments. I do have a nose for those—alongside a taste for the finer things in life.’

  ‘A nose! By Jove, that he does!’ Upminster slapped him on the back. ‘I doubt there are many men who could make such a fortune in that home of convicts and ne’er-do-wells at the bottom of the world, but Millcroft has managed it. If reports from the governor are to be believed, he went from nothing to becoming the richest man in New South Wales in less than a decade. That is no mean feat, sir!’

  ‘Hardly nothing, my lord. I still had my wits and my keen eye for profit.’ Seb’s eyes could not resist quickly flicking to hers, trying to ignore the fact that the Duke of Westbridge had taken her arm proprietorially and the jolt of raw jealousy that hardened his own jaw at the sight. ‘The spirit of entrepreneurship thrives in the Antipodes. Alongside the ne’er-do-wells.’

  * * *

  The next ten minutes were spent in much the same manner. Seb and Upminster continued baiting the hook for Penhurst, who did his best to seem uninterested, but asked the pertinent questions one would expect from a fishing expedition. Penhurst was trying to subtly gauge his measure and Seb was dismissively flippant in his answers, making sure the corrupt viscount was left in no doubt that all he cared about was increasing his fortune. Because it was a conversation between men, the ladies had moved to the periphery and Gem stayed close to her Duke, hanging on the fellow’s every word adoringly, although her eyes frequently wandered to Seb and held, their message obvious. She was biding her time, but still expecting an explanation. Once or twice, Westbridge caught her staring and scowled. She didn’t appear to notice.

  It went without saying he hated Westbridge on sight. He was exactly the kind of pompous windbag Seb had pictured when she had first mentioned him. Fashionably dressed, the evening waistcoat in a garish turquoise silk, his hair pomaded to sit just so above his regal, straight eyebrows and his cravat secured with a pin tipped with an emerald the size of a quail’s egg. Looking at everything and everyone down the slope of his long, narrow nose, he was the epitome of the superior aristocrat—stand-offish, self-important, supremely confident in his wealth and standing to the extent his eyes never met any of those he considered beneath him.

  All show and no substance.

  But a duke.

  Penhurst was a different kettle of fish but equally as dislikeable. The way he had clicked his fingers to summon his wife, followed by the nervous way she snapped to attention, told Seb a great deal. When you closely watched human interactions from the shadows, you grew to recognise certain emotions fast. The Viscountess Penhurst was frightened of her husband. Her husband, on the other hand, was largely indifferent and cold towards her. Theirs was no marriage made in heaven. A detail which he would store away in case it became useful, alongside the fortuitous knowledge that it appeared Lady Clarissa Beaumont also happened to be more than an acquaintance to the nervous viscountess. Perhaps another avenue into Penhurst’s circle if he needed one? And if he could get her to go along with his lies... But would she, seeing as Penhurst and her hidebound Duke were old friends? Perhaps even business associates?

  Like her Duke, Penhurst, too, wore his title like a badge, but as a mere viscount came significantly lower in the pecking order and therefore had less scope to blithely ignore those in the room as Gem’s Duke did. However, his guarded eyes were everywhere, assessing. Currently they were quietly watching Seb, which he assumed was a good thing now that their brief business discussion was concluded and he was quietly pleased with the job he had done under the strained and unexpected circumstances. It showed Penhurst was intrigued enough to want to know more, but was nowhere near ready to reveal his hand. This next part, the dance that Lord Fennimore hoped would lead to overtures, would be tricky. Push too hard and the hatches would be battened. Fail to push and Seb would be easily forgotten. It was a delicate balance and one for which he would need all his wits about him to achieve. The nagging fear about Lady Clarissa blowing his cover wide open needed to be dealt with swiftly, yet to do it he would need to get her alone.

  Fortunately, Seb didn’t have to wait long. Another young lady with a head of blonde, tight-corkscrew ringlets sailed over, her destination obviously the Duke. He watched Gem’s arm tighten around Westbridge’s, but upon seeing the younger chit, the Duke immediately extricated himself from her grip and her smile was suddenly as brittle as spun sugar. Not close
enough to hear the exchange, Seb watched the other woman tap her dance card and the Duke step forward to take her arm instead, the Incomparable he had just abandoned clearly already forgotten.

  As the pair headed towards the dance floor, the younger girl—because she was far too young, in Seb’s humble opinion, to be considered a woman yet—looked back and shot Clarissa a triumphant smile before literally hanging on the windbag as they walked away.

  When those around her stopped watching, the false smile slipped off Clarissa’s lovely face and she appeared rattled. Deflated even, until her slim shoulders stiffened and she elegantly inhaled a very deep breath. Then she swiftly turned on her heel. Seb saw a flash of red disappear towards the refreshment table with more haste than was necessary and deftly followed. Away from her friends, they could talk—if he could get his tongue to untangle long enough to string coherent sentences together. Of all the women he had to run into, all the unforeseen complications, why did it have to be her? And why did she have to look so damn beautiful tonight that she took his breath away?

  She sensed him before he had chance to speak and turned just her face to look at him. ‘Lord Millcroft. What a surprise.’

  ‘We need to talk. Privately.’

  ‘I dare say we do. Do you waltz?’

  ‘After a fashion.’ At least Flint and Warriner had attempted to teach him the dance when they were all at Cambridge together, in the faint hope he would pluck up the courage to ask a woman to dance with him one day. From memory, he recalled it mostly involved turning and counting to three while avoiding looking at his masculine partner’s grinning face.