Gentleman Jim

by Mimi Matthews

  Maggie straightened her skirts around her. Her gown, like all her others, hung loosely on her frame. She feared that whatever illusion her fine cloak had provided had now been dispelled. For all she knew, St. Clare thought her some sort of poor, grasping opportunist in ill-fitting clothes who went about pretending to be a fine lady. “No. It isn’t,” she admitted. “Mrs. Ives is, in fact, the name of my maid.”

  Bessie, who had remained near Maggie on the sofa, gave a nod to St. Clare but said nothing.

  “I’m Margaret Honeywell of Beasley Park.” Maggie thought she saw a flicker in St. Clare’s gaze, but it was gone before she could interpret it. “I’m at present a guest of Lord and Lady Trumble in Green Street.”

  “So, not a Mrs. at all.”

  “No, my lord. But as I told your butler, my business with you is most urgent. It concerns your duel. And, as I only arrived in London this afternoon, time was of the essence. I had to contrive a way to call upon you without endangering my reputation. That’s why I’ve come at this hour, and why I didn’t give your butler my true name.”

  “Quite.”

  Maggie hesitated. St. Clare’s expression was completely inscrutable. She couldn’t tell for the life of her if he was one of those odious gentlemen who pokered up as soon as a lady mentioned such topics as duels or gaming hells or the demi-monde. She lifted her chin a notch. “I suppose you won’t even acknowledge that you’re having a duel with Mr. Burton-Smythe.”

  He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  She blinked. “Oh. Well… That is unexpected. But I must say, it certainly simplifies matters.”

  “I see no need to complicate them.”

  “Nor do I. However, there are some gentlemen who insist on making everything far more difficult than it need be.”

  “A tiresome habit. Tell me, Miss Honeywell, am I right in concluding that you’re somehow affiliated with Mr. Burton-Smythe?”

  “Affiliated?” Maggie gave a short laugh. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” She rubbed her forehead with her hand.

  “Does your head ache again, Miss Margaret?” Bessie asked, moving toward her.

  “What? No. Please don’t make a fuss. I’m perfectly well.” Maggie turned her attention back to St. Clare. She hadn’t thought it possible, but he seemed to be watching her even more intently now. “Yes, my lord. Mr. Burton-Smythe and I are affiliated. He is, in a manner of speaking, my guardian.”

  For a fraction of a second, St. Clare’s mask of slightly bored affability dropped, revealing a glitter of outrage. “Your guardian?”

  “More precisely, he’s the executor of my father’s will and has control of my property and funds until the date of my marriage. The provisions of the will are such that, if anything were to happen to him, there’s a fair chance I would end up living in penury.”

  “Ah. This begins to make sense.”

  Maggie took a breath. She’d already fainted into the gentleman’s arms. There was no need to stand on ceremony. “I understand that you’re particularly proficient with a pistol, my lord.”

  He shrugged his shoulder again. “I’m a Beresford.”

  “I beg your pardon. A Beresford, did you say?”

  “I’m John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare. My grandfather is Aldrick Beresford, Earl of Allendale. And yes, Miss Honeywell. The Beresfords are particularly proficient with pistols.”

  “Yes, of course. Your family name. Forgive me, I didn’t know.” Maggie dropped her eyes to her hands for a moment before raising them back to St. Clare’s face. “I’ll not beat about the bush, my lord. I’ve come to beg you to call off your duel with Mr. Burton-Smythe.”

  St. Clare seemed to consider this. “I assume you’ve already asked the same of Mr. Burton-Smythe?”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “For all the good it did me. He’s utterly unreasonable. But you… Well, I don’t know you, my lord, but I have every hope that you’ll take my concerns seriously. If not, the only course left to me is to discover where your duel is to be held and to somehow arrange to appear there at the pivotal moment so that I might throw myself between the two of you.”

  He gave her a strange look. “Does that method usually work?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never attempted it when pistols were involved.”

  “Do you mean to say that you have attempted it on other occasions?”

  “Oh, yes. Before… That is, many years ago. But it was merely fisticuffs. And Fred—Mr. Burton-Smythe, I mean—only ever withdrew from fighting because I had some measure of influence over him then.” She smoothed out a crease in her skirt. “It’s different now. I have no influence at all. Indeed, I’m powerless to stop him doing anything.”

  St. Clare watched her awhile longer, and then, in a gentler tone than he’d used thus far, said, “Rest easy, Miss Honeywell. Much as he may deserve it, I don’t intend to kill Mr. Burton-Smythe at dawn. It’s a capital offense, you know, and having spent the better part of my life on the continent, I have no immediate desire to return there.”

  Hope surged in Maggie’s breast. “You’ll call off the duel?”

  “Ah. No. That, I’m afraid, I cannot do. But I give you my word of honor that Mr. Burton-Smythe will not die at my hand.”

  Maggie had a poor opinion of a gentleman’s word of honor. Even so, she knew better than to call it into question. A gentleman could be quite touchy on the subject. She supposed that St. Clare’s assurances would have to satisfy her. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very much obliged to you.”

  “Indeed you are,” he murmured. “One might even say that you’re in my debt.”

  Bessie gave a sharp intake of breath.

  Maggie cast a fleeting glance in her maid’s direction before turning her attention back to the viscount. “In your debt? For sparing Mr. Burton-Smythe, do you mean? But you said you had no intention of killing him in the first place.”

  “So I did. And at the moment, that’s very true. At dawn, however…” He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Your Mr. Burton-Smythe can be devilish provoking.”

  “Of that I’m well aware, but I don’t see how—”

  “There’s a good chance he’ll say something to annoy me.”

  Her brows drew together. “He very well might.”

  “And when he does, the impulse to put a bullet in his brain may be too great to resist.”

  Maggie heard another gasp from Bessie. And no wonder. A gentleman shouldn’t speak of duels at all in the presence of a lady, let alone be so lost to decency as to mention firing a bullet into someone’s brain.

  Perhaps St. Clare was trying to put her out of countenance?

  If so, he was in for a disappointment. As a girl, Maggie had frequently heard her father threatening to blow this or that person’s brains out, or to tear them limb from limb. Indeed, she recalled making similar threats a time or two herself. The Honeywells were known for their bluster.

  “If he offends you in some way, can you not simply ignore him?” she asked. “It’s what I try to do.”

  St. Clare leaned back in his leather chair and crossed his legs. The firelight reflected in the mirror-polished finish of his Hessians and glittered in the golden threads of his hair. He was the picture of an aristocratic gentleman at his ease.

  Maggie wasn’t fooled one bit.

  His light-colored pantaloons clung to long, powerfully made legs, and his dark blue coat appeared to have been molded to his broad shoulders. The elegant sprawl he affected was an illusion. St. Clare was no more relaxed than a lion waiting to spring upon its prey.

  “In other circumstances,” he replied, “perhaps I could. But during an affair of honor a man’s blood is running high. Even the most placid sort of gentleman often finds himself unable to refrain from violence when a pistol is in his hand. And I am not a placid sort of gentleman. In truth, I have a bit of a temper.”

&
nbsp; “As do I, my lord. What does that signify? Unless… Are you saying that your conduct at dawn hinges on whether or not Mr. Burton-Smythe can refrain from irritating you?” She was incredulous. “If that is so, then he’s as good as dead. I have come here for nothing.”

  “Not necessarily. I believe, with the right inducement, I may be able to restrain myself.”

  “Inducement?”

  “It strikes me, Miss Honeywell, that if I’m to do this great favor for you, the least you might do in return is to grant me a forfeit of some kind.”

  Bessie gave a puff of indignation. “Miss Margaret,” she warned under her breath.

  “It’s all right, Bessie,” Maggie said, still looking at St. Clare. If he hadn’t reminded her so much of Nicholas Seaton, she might have been insulted. As it was, she could only be intrigued. “What sort of forfeit?”

  “You’ve asked me to spare a man’s life. A man whom I dislike excessively. The comparable forfeit for such a service would be great indeed. Far greater than anything a gentleman would ever ask of a lady. I propose instead, three more moderately sized forfeits to be collected at the time of my choosing.”

  “Miss Margaret!” Bessie hissed.

  “Hush, Bessie. I ask again, my lord, what sort of forfeits?”

  St. Clare gave her a crooked smile. “I don’t know yet, but it will be nothing untoward, I assure you.”

  The sight of St. Clare’s smile was like a lightning bolt straight through Maggie’s heart. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She’d seen that same crooked smile thousands of times before. It worked on her in a powerful way. St. Clare wasn’t Nicholas Seaton, she knew it, but to once again be the recipient of that smile and that stormy gray gaze, Maggie thought she would agree to practically anything in the world. “All right, then. I accept your terms.”

  “Jenkins has done wonders with your gown.” Jane eyed Maggie’s muslin walking dress from across the breakfast table the following morning. “Didn’t I tell you? A stitch or two here, a bit of ribbon there, et voilà!”

  Maggie cast a brief glance downward. Jane’s dresser, while no skilled seamstress, was a dab hand at making minor alterations. She’d taken in Maggie’s three-year-old white muslin in only a few strategic places, and now, instead of billowing about her like a shapeless sack, it skimmed softly over her curves. “It certainly fits better. Though I’m afraid no amount of ribbon can disguise how thoroughly out of fashion it is.”

  “Indeed. It is very plain. And not a single flounce. But the fabric is exquisite, and in that shade of white your complexion fairly glows. Who made it for you originally? Mme. Dupin, I expect. She was all the rage during your last visit. She’s sold up, you know. Ran off to the continent with a married lover. At least, that was the gossip at the time.” Jane buttered a slice of toast. “Perhaps Jenkins can alter a few of your other dresses?” she suggested before taking a bite.

  Maggie was tempted. Whatever she ordered at the modiste this afternoon wouldn’t be ready for a week or more. It would be lovely to have something to wear in the meantime. If only her own happiness were the sole consideration! She sighed. “It’s good of you to offer, Jane, but I dare not accept. Bessie’s been in high dudgeon from the moment Jenkins set foot into my dressing room. I’ve spent half the morning trying to soothe her injured feelings.”

  “How very territorial the two of them are.” Jane laughed. “Like a pair of old cats. Well, never mind. I expect that Madame Clothilde will have a few dresses ready-made that you might purchase along with the rest of your order.”

  They planned to visit the modiste directly after breakfast. Maggie hoped she was equal to the task. Not only did she have her usual fatigue to contend with, but after a night spent with too little sleep, she had the added burden of exhaustion.

  She and Jane had stayed up until nearly four in the morning discussing Maggie’s visit with Lord St. Clare. Jane had wanted to know everything, from the condition of the hackney coach that had conveyed Maggie to Grosvenor Square to the far superior manner in which she’d been transported back to Green Street.

  Had St. Clare really sent her home in his own carriage? With a fur-lined carriage rug and a hot brick for her feet? And was it true that he’d given Bessie a small flask of his best brandy to serve in case Maggie should feel faint again on the short journey home?

  It was all true.

  No sooner had she agreed to the viscount’s proposed forfeits than he’d risen and rung the bell for his butler. He’d issued orders for their hired hackney to be dismissed, his own carriage to be readied, and for all to be done to assure her comfort on the journey back to Green Street.

  She assumed the hot brick and carriage rug were Jessup’s doing. The elegant silver flask, however, must have come from St. Clare himself, for upon examination, Maggie had discovered the letter B engraved upon it, along with some odd design which encompassed two animals that looked very much like foxes. She supposed it was the Beresford family crest.

  But it hadn’t been St. Clare’s generosity that Maggie had lain awake thinking about until dawn, nor even his scandalous request for three forfeits. Instead, she’d been thinking of the one aspect of her visit to Grosvenor Square that she hadn’t shared with Jane. The one aspect that was unknown, even to Bessie.

  Lord St. Clare’s unsettling resemblance to Nicholas Seaton.

  “In the meanwhile,” Jane continued, drawing Maggie’s attention back to their conversation, “I shall lend you my new French bonnet. The white satin trimmed in blue ribbons.” She paused to address a passing footman. “See that the barouche is readied, Carson. We’ll be leaving in half an hour.” And then to Maggie: “You must use my blue silk parasol as well. The color will suit you far better than it does me.”

  “That’s very good of you. Though I expect your motives are somewhat less than altruistic. After all, it would do you no credit to be seen out shopping with—what did you call me upon my arrival? An unfashionable dowd?”

  “No, did I?” Jane stifled another laugh. “But really, Margaret, you were used to look as neat as a pin. And now, well, it seems to me that since your dear papa died, you’re past all caring. I fear that between your illness, Fred’s tyranny, and the circumstances of your papa’s will, your spirit has been broken altogether. I hope you’ll tell me that I’m wrong.”

  Maggie reached for the silver pot of chocolate and silently refilled her cup. When she was finished pouring, she looked up at Jane with a taut smile. “You’re quite wrong.”

  “My dear, I know that you’ve been blue deviled. Who on earth could blame you? But you mustn’t allow any of these things to weigh on you. Not Fred or Beasley Park or even your poor health. You must put yourself into my hands. I have plans for everything, you see.”

  Maggie sipped her chocolate, regarding her friend with interest over the rim of her cup. “Oh, do you?”

  “Of course! Firstly, I’ve been thinking that that horrid country doctor down in Somerset isn’t at all the thing. He’s Sir Roderick Burton-Smythe’s creature, is he not? While you’re here in town, you must see a proper physician. Mama consults a very competent fellow in Harley Street. Dr. Hart. He isn’t particularly fashionable, for he’s rather young and doesn’t cater to old women’s fancies, but all of his methods are the absolute newest thing, and for real illness, Mama says he’s the very best.”

  Maggie lowered her cup. “Has Lady Trumble been ill?”

  “Heavens no. It’s only her megrims. And they’ve been much better under Dr. Hart’s care. Indeed, it was Dr. Hart who recommended she remove to the country for the season. You must consult him, Margaret. At least, say you will consider it.”

  Maggie thought about it only a moment before saying, almost defiantly, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t receive a second opinion.”

  “Exactly so!”

  “But I’d prefer it were done discreetly. And without Fred’s knowledge. I wouldn
’t like him badgering me or…or influencing the doctor in any way.”

  “How could he? He’s not your husband! Which brings me to another idea of mine.” Jane waited until the maidservant who was clearing away the dishes had left the room. “One of my cousins is married to a solicitor, Mr. Wroxham. Do you suppose that, if you were to consult him about your father’s will—”

  Jane broke off abruptly as the doors to the breakfast room were unceremoniously pushed opened and her elder brother sauntered in.

  George Trumble was a thin gentleman of medium height, with an amiable countenance and the same fair hair and closely set brown eyes as his sister. He’d been a sort of admirer of Maggie’s during her come-out season, and though he hadn’t waged a vigorous campaign for her heart—as Jane often said, George was no Wellington—he’d trailed after her quite loyally and had always been happy to be of service. When it had finally occurred to him that Maggie didn’t return his, or anyone else’s affections, his lukewarm ardor had cooled, quite naturally, into brotherly regard.

  Now, as he greeted her, a slight reddening of his cheeks was the only indication that she’d ever been anything more to him than just another of his sister’s many friends.

  “What are you doing here so early, George?” Jane asked as he kissed her cheek. “I didn’t expect we’d see you until much later in the evening.”

  George leaned around his sister to help himself to a large slice of plum cake. “I’ve been out riding and—”

  Jane slapped his outstretched hand. “If you’re going to eat that, pray sit down.”

  With a sheepish grin, George joined them at the breakfast table. He dropped his plum cake onto a plate and allowed his sister to pour him out a cup of coffee.

  “You have the worst timing, George,” Jane told him. “We’re just on our way out. Indeed, I’ve already ordered the carriage.”

  “Out? Out where? And where is Aunt Harriet? Isn’t she supposed to be chaperoning the pair of you?”