Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  Chapter Three

  “Come on, Amelia, be a sport.” Johnny Farrington grabbed for her skirts and began to lift them.

  “Stop that this instant.” She pulled free, frowning at him and batting his hands away.

  “Why? You liked it last time.” He pouted. “I thought we were meeting for a quick toss. It was good, darling. You know it was good. I made you come several times.” He preened while eyeing her cleavage.

  “I lied, Johnny.” She curled her lip at him. “Besides, I thought we could talk as civilized friends. But I see I was wrong.”

  He snorted. “Friends? Well certainly. You want to borrow money from me, not to put too fine a point on it. So, yes. I’ll lend you the funds. But you have to fuck me. Here and now.” He pointed to the door of the quiet art gallery where they had met. “That’s a small office. Nobody uses it. Sinjun Markesby told me about it.” He grinned. “Said I should know in case I had a need for privacy.”

  He backed her into an eight-foot statue of a lion, trapping her. “I have a need, Amelia.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his crotch, rubbing it over his erection.

  She tugged free. “That’s all there is, isn’t there? A hello, a fuck and I’ll pay you if you do it again.” She clenched her teeth against a dart of anger and pain. “I’m just that quick fuck you rather enjoyed.”

  He shrugged. “If you must be that blunt, then yes. However, I am offering to cover that loan, Amelia and I can be generous. It’s not like you’d be doing it for nothing.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Thank you, Johnny.” She gathered her skirts and moved away. “I have never been called a whore so subtly.”

  “No—wait, Amelia. I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes you did.” She sighed as she walked toward the exit. “I understand. Goodbye Mr. Farrington. I’d wish you luck, but that would be dishonest of me. I actually hope you end up with a mistress who will take every penny you’ve got, and then make the rest of your life as miserable as hell.”

  And on that vindictive note, she swept out into the street, her eyes bleary and her heart thumping.

  Not quite sure where she was, she paused for a few moments and retrieved a small handkerchief, dabbing it beneath her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Ma’am?” An elderly gentleman paused in front of her with a concerned frown.

  “Yes, thank you, sir. Just a cinder in my eye.”

  “Ahh, that’ll be a bit of a bother. Don’t rub it, will you.”

  “I won’t. Thank you again.”

  “I hate to see a lovely lady in any discomfort,” he smiled gently. “You remind me of my daughter. She’d be about your age now, if she’d lived.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Amelia was immersed in her own thoughts and not really paying attention.

  He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew something. “Here, my dear. This belonged to her and I have no one to leave it to now. Please wear it occasionally and remember it was worn by another beauty. It would please me to know it’s cared for, and I hope it will make you smile.”

  “I…” Without thinking, she let him put a small object into her hand.

  “Thank you. You just made an old man very happy.”

  He walked away before she could even inspect what she was holding. Looking more closely, she saw a miniature. It was an oval not much larger than her thumbnail. A portrait, probably on ivory or something smooth. A pretty girl, with dark hair. But she couldn’t see any resemblance at all. Tucking it away in her pocket, she moved on, glad that the old gentleman had left. She’d been called whore once today, why take the chance of earning that title again with a man she didn’t know? Although he’d seemed quite innocent.

  She idled her way along the pavement. One could never tell with people these days. Instead of a sad father, that man might have been a grandfather on his way to see his family. Or he might have been walking out on his wife and on the hunt for a companion for the evening.

  Two sides to a coin, many sides to men everywhere.

  Suddenly a sense of abandonment swept over her, and she looked around to find herself in a small park. It was still damp but the worst of the fog had lifted and she walked to an empty bench, wiping it briefly with her handkerchief and then seating herself.

  She just needed somewhere to—to absolutely not cry.

  Great sobs welled up and were stifled in the handkerchief as Amelia DeVere faced her worst fear. Loneliness.

  She was more alone now than when her mother had passed away. She’d been fourteen at the time, just coming into her beauty and completely dependent upon her mother for advice, wisdom and sound common sense.

  The loss of the most important woman in Amelia’s life had sent her reeling; and sadly there was nobody there to catch her. Her brother was at university, her sister newly engaged.

  Her father…well, he had his own grief to deal with, and had no time for a daughter who could barely speak without bursting into tears.

  Those remembered emotions swept over her once more as she sat, alone, lost, and completely out of options. She sobbed, hiccupping as air forced its way past the clog in her throat and into her lungs. She held the tears back as long as she could, but at last the dam shattered.

  Her handkerchief was a sodden mess.

  Suddenly a large hand thrust an even larger handkerchief under her nose.

  “Here, lass. This one’ll serve you better if you’re going to howl like a banshee under a full moon.”

  She looked up and saw the last man she would have expected to see. That damn Bow Street Runner.

  She took it without a word and dried her eyes, then straightened her spine. “My thanks, Mr. McPherson. I will have it laundered and returned to you. And I ask that, as a gentleman, you not refer to my…indisposition.”

  He sat beside her. “And here I was going to take out a notice in the Times.”

  She eyed him. “Ah, that was sarcasm, was it?”

  “Aye.”

  “To be expected from a Scot, I suppose.”

  He ignored the comment. “Why are you crying?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  “You?” He chuckled. “Yes, you need a reason. Of all the people I’d have expected to find sitting having a wee weep on a London bench in the fog, you’d have been bottom of the list.”

  “It was not, as you so delightfully describe it, a wee weep. I received some sad news and chose to express my sorrow privately.”

  “You lie eloquently.”

  She sighed. “What are you doing here?” A frown followed. “Are you following me?”

  “Nay, lass. I was on my way to Bow Street.”

  She shifted her skirt away from him. “Do not let me detain you.”

  Once again he stubbornly ignored the hint. “So why the tears? What could possibly bring the incomparable Amelia DeVere to a secluded spot for a good cry?”

  She raised her chin. “I must disabuse you of this absurd notion I was crying, Mr. McPherson. There are many variations of sadness.” She thought rapidly. “A dear friend notified me of the passing of her father. I had been consoling her and it was momentarily oversetting. I paused here to recover my countenance.” She shot him a glare. “In private.”

  “Is that the case, then? Well I must be all kinds of fool.” He leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankles. “For I could’ve sworn I saw a very angry young gentleman in a state of—er—masculine distress, come bursting out of that very door not long after yourself.” He gave her back look for look. “Mr. Farrington, I think. Quite upset he was.”

  She struggled. “Really? I believe I do know that gentleman.” Her voice was glacial.

  “So being a bit of a smart lad at times, I have to ask myself what on earth you could have said to that ninnyhammer to get him all het up and shoutin’ for you.”

  She surprised herself with a tiny chuckle. “He is a ninnyhammer. And I’d like to know why all of a sudden you have a distinctly Scottish flavor to your conversation, sir?”

  “
I am Scottish. Born and bred.”

  “Well goodness. With that red hair, and your last name, I had thought you Norwegian.” Her lip curled in disdain.

  “That’s very good.” He grinned. “So why were you crying? What did the ninnyhammer do to upset you?”

  Overlooking the insult to Farrington, Amelia risked a glance at Ian, noting the calm interest and unreadable blue eyes. “Why? Would you go and challenge him to a duel if he did?”

  He laughed, bringing a flash of white teeth to lighten the beard and crinkles around those attractive eyes. “Hell no. I’m a terrible shot and have a fierce hatred of pistols.”

  In spite of herself, Amelia was charmed. “Bagpipes at dawn?”

  “That would get everyone arrested for disturbing the peace. From London to Newcastle, if the wind’s in the right direction. My God, have you ever stood close to a bagpiper?” He shuddered. “Torture indeed.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  And he stood. “There we are then. That lovely smile is back and I must be on my way. You may keep the handkerchief with my regards.”

  To her utter astonishment, he gave her a brief salute with his hand and strolled off, whistling a tune that could well have been some kind of lilting Scottish folk song.

  “Well.” She spoke aloud. “That was surprising.”

  *~~*~~*

  Ian and Amelia didn’t meet again for several weeks.

  But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t in his thoughts now and again, even though he did try his best to keep his attention on things that mattered, like the theft and some other crimes that came across his desk. It stopped him from spending too much time considering the enigma that was Amelia DeVere.

  He heard through London’s gossip mill that she had departed the Metropolis and was taking over a family estate in the north of England.

  He had no trouble translating that. She had been driven out of town by the DeVeres. In fact, if he’d been one of them he’d have done it long ago, before she reached the point of notoriety that made it a necessity.

  So it was with a somewhat mixed set of emotions that he knocked at the door of DeVere House one sunny autumn day.

  “Ah, good.” Once again he was warmly welcomed by Rigsby DeVere. “You have news?”

  Ian nodded. “I’m not sure I’d class this as news, but it gives us a direction to pursue.”

  “Very well.” This time DeVere offered him a seat and took his own behind the desk. “Please tell me what you have found out.”

  Ian took out his notebook and flipped it to the most recent page. “I researched the history behind the gem, with the goal of discovering who might have the most to gain by stealing it, other than the obvious financial reasons. Also whether or not such gain was associated with anyone either on Miss DeVere’s list of enemies, or my list of known thieves.”

  “And with success?”

  “Some,” answered Ian. “The original stone came from Burma several hundred years ago; it was—er—appropriated—stolen or gifted—from a Maharaja to a French traveler. The method of transfer varies depending on who is relating the tale.”

  DeVere nodded. “Not surprising, really.”

  “No, it’s not,” agreed Ian. “Once in France it was reset into the pendant Miss DeVere described. And since this was still over two hundred years ago, you may imagine it has had quite a few adventures since then.” He glanced down at his notes. “It was lost in a game of chance, ended up in Chinese hands for some unknown reason and then back around the neck of an Indian princess. I saw the painting and recognized it from the descriptions, and this helped me dig into its history.”

  “Well. I had no idea.”

  Ian couldn’t tell whether DeVere was interested or not, but since the man was paying Bow Street for Ian’s services, he was going to get value for his coin.

  “So that brings us closer to our own time period. And that’s where things become surprisingly vague. It would seem that the Indian Princess bequeathed her jewels to a woman who had helped her escape some nasty bother in her homeland.” He looked up. “I’m not sure which part of India she lived in, but given the instability of the country, pick one. It’ll do.”

  “Understood.” DeVere was paying attention to the story.

  “This woman was the wife of a French diplomat, Baron D’Etremont, who managed to survive the Indian turmoil long enough to return to France with his wife and the Princess’s jewels. One assumes that the Princess had passed on somewhere in this entire tale.”

  “I’m impressed,” nodded DeVere. “You’ve dug up some fascinating stuff. I should probably give you a couple of our pieces and see what you come up with.”

  Ian shook his head. “Thank you, but no. One ruby is enough right at this moment.”

  Rigsby chuckled. “Very well. Please continue…”

  “Well, let me see…” Ian turned a page. “The ruby is now in France again, in the hands of the D’Etremont family. And of course the unrest of the revolution is brewing. Being an intelligent man, the Baron makes an attempt to get both himself and his family out of the country, as so many aristocrats did at that time. And unfortunately, there were all too many Englishmen ready to take advantage of the situation. One of the Ware ancestors was right up there, from the sound of things.”

  “Amelia’s late husband?”

  Ian nodded. “Could have been. Or at least someone from that family. I’m not implying that Lord Ware was the guilty party. However, a Ware accepted the charge of assisting the D’Etremonts in their bid to escape France and Madame Guillotine.”

  “Let me guess,” DeVere leaned forward. “The D’Etremonts gave Ware the ruby as payment.”

  “Precisely.” Ian closed the notebook. “And that explains the arrival of that piece into the Ware family. I would hesitate to refer to it as a Ware heirloom, since it’s only been a generation or so with them, but logically speaking, every piece of jewelry is someone’s heirloom…” he waved away the discussion.

  “There is one unfortunate postscript to this story.”

  “The D’Etremonts?”

  Ian glanced up approvingly. Whatever else he was, Rigsby DeVere didn’t lack for a brain. “Yes, the D’Etremonts.”

  “You hardly need to tell me. They didn’t escape the Terror?”

  “Well they escaped, as in boarded a boat heading for Dover from somewhere along the northern coast of France. But sadly Ware had selected the least expensive means of transport for them, to maximize his own profits. The small boat he had obtained, and the crew sailing it, was not only unreliable but well known to the locals. Drunk as badgers, ‘t’was said. He himself stayed ashore in England. To nobody’s surprise—except perhaps the D’Etremonts—the sailors failed to observe an approaching storm, went headlong into it and sank with all hands.”

  “So the Ware involved ended up with the ruby and most of his funds intact?”

  “So it would seem, yes. He’d accepted the gem in France, come to England, hired the cheapest crew possible, and paid them a minimal amount. I’m sure the balance would have been due upon their safe arrival.”

  “How did you find all this out?” DeVere asked the question with a touch of envy and genuine interest.

  Ian approved. The man knew the worth of the people he hired, and that said a lot in Ian’s book.

  “Once I had seen the ruby on that Indian woman’s lovely neck, I had a time period and a name to go on. With that, it wasn’t hard to trace forward. The Ware history is well-documented, since that family was blessed with any number of aunts and cousins who wrote copious amounts of letters and seemed to believe that they were all worth keeping. Many have found their way into public documents, since the records of that time—the histories, the emigres and their rescues—are still of interest today.”

  “I have to admit I’m enthralled with what you’ve learned. I do appreciate information—to me it’s the life blood of progress. And I would not have dreamed a simple necklace could have such an intriguing history.
”

  “All that aside,” said Ian, “it also gives us a chance to narrow down the possible suspects in the current crime. Obviously any member of the Ware family might have been furious enough to instigate the theft. Motives there? Either to recover what they consider a family heirloom, to sell for as much as possible—I don’t think they’re in financial trouble, but I have that on my list of things to look into—or the other reason. Which is to cover up the disgraceful behavior of a Ware ancestor.”

  “Valid motives.” DeVere stroked his chin and looked absently out of the window. “What about the foreign aspect? The descendants of the Indian Princess?”

  “Another road I’ll be exploring.” Ian stood. “It’s a slow process, I’m afraid, but I’ll not lose track of it.”

  DeVere rose as well. “I believe you. Take your time and continue as you are going. I may not be well-disposed towards my sister, but make no mistake—she is my blood, for good or ill. I would not want this theft to escalate into anything more serious. For whatever reason.”

  Ian met the man’s gaze. He was sending a clear message and Ian understood without a need for any more conversation.

  Keep my sister out of danger if you can.

  “If anything new arises, I will make sure to keep you informed.” Ian bowed.

  “Good man.”

  Chapter Four

  There was a drip, a horribly steady drip, plinking onto something hard outside her door.

  Amelia could have screamed her frustration, but was afraid that if she did so the sound would bring down the walls of what was supposed to be her new home.

  Natherbury Fell was less of a home and more of a rotting pig sty. Her first glimpse of it had been a stark shadow against the setting sun with just one light shining from an upstairs window.

  The DeVere travelling carriage had unloaded Amelia and her trunks and then turned right around for the trip back to London. She struggled with the urge to grab onto the rear straps and go back with it.

  But she had no choice. It was a source of constant frustration, but her brother had cornered her, legally and physically, leaving her no way of escaping what she now viewed as his sentence.