by Anne Stuart
She didn’t like the faint drawl in his voice when he called her “my boy.” Not for a moment did she believe he could see through her disguise. She’d spent enough of her unorthodox lifetime in breeches to have become accustomed to them, and she knew she walked with just the right sort of diffident swagger. In the weeks since she’d landed in this benighted country and run away from Lemur, not one person had seen through her disguise. This tall gentleman with the mocking smile and the cool silver eyes would hardly be the first.
“I try to keep my wits about me,” she said, pleased at the faint trace of London accent she was able to insert in her husky contralto. That was the one area where her years abroad had failed her. She could walk and act like no proper young lady, but her voice constantly gave away her genteel background. And she wasn’t conversant enough with her fellow countrymen to pick up the proper working-class accent. The few times she’d attempted it, she’d almost risked exposure.
“You do manage,” Ramsey drawled. “You might want to lean back against me. It’s a long ride, and a boy your age needs his rest. What is your age, by the way?”
“Seventeen,” she lied, knowing full well she looked even younger. In fact, she was twenty-two.
“Such a youth,” he murmured. “And where is your family, young Julian?”
“Don’t got any.” She was getting quite adept with the accent, she thought. “Sir,” she added hastily.
“You ‘don’t got any’?” he echoed, mocking. “Charming. Lean against me. Unlike our friend Pinworth, I promise I have no interest in molesting innocent young boys.”
“You prefer jaded young boys?” she asked before she could control her unruly tongue. Her own gasp of horror followed her artless question, and she waited, holding herself very still, for him to dump her off the horse and into a nearby ditch.
Instead, he laughed. It was a disturbing sound, soft, oddly sensual on the sea-laden breeze. “It’s a good thing you’re coming out to Sutter’s Head, Julian. With a tongue like that on you, you’d be bound to run into more trouble than you could deal with.” He took the reins in one hand, slid his arm around her waist, just beneath her breasts, and pulled her back against him, not gently. “And no, don’t tell me again how you’ve taken care of yourself. You were about to get yourself into a great deal of trouble with Pinworth, and even Mowbray couldn’t have helped you. Accept it, my child. You’ll be a lot safer and happier at Sutter’s Head.”
He was very hard and strong behind her, and hot as well. The man must have been made of solid bone and muscle—there didn’t seem to be a soft spot at all in his lean body. She didn’t bother fighting the restraining arm. If she did, he might accidentally touch her breasts, and that was the last thing she could risk. She had no choice but to lean back against him.
She didn’t have to like it. A soft breeze had picked up, blowing the loose tendrils of hair about her face. They were following the edge of the sea, and the steady hush of the waves mingled with the gait of the horse, the heartbeat of the man pressed against her. She could close her eyes and feel safe for the first time in months. Surely it wasn’t wicked of her to give in to that momentary temptation?
“That’s the lad,” Ramsey murmured in her ear as she relaxed against him, and she was suddenly too tired to resent the amusement in his voice. “Come tomorrow, Valerie will keep you hopping. Best get what rest you can. Trust me. I won’t let you fall.”
“Trust you?” Juliette murmured sleepily, wishing she had the energy to drag herself out of the delicious torpor she was floating in. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“Very wise, lad,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “But just for now you can relax. No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m around.”
Perhaps not, Juliette thought, unable to fight the mists of sleep any longer.
But who’s going to protect me from you?
CHAPTER THREE
Val glared up at his older brother. “You don’t have to be such a brute about it,” he snapped.
It was the next morning. The two brothers were in the largest bedroom of the house at Sutter’s Head, and Phelan was assisting the recalcitrant Valerian with the rigors of his daily toilette.
“Hold still.” Phelan yanked at the lacing of Valerian’s corset, then cursed as one of the strings snapped. “Why don’t you do without this instrument of torture? Those dresses Hannigan found for you were made for a mountainous female. No one will notice if your waist is several inches larger than it was yesterday.”
“Especially since you put it about that I was in an interesting condition,” Val grumbled. “I expect you find it amusing.”
“A bit.”
“Then why are you glaring at me? I would have thought you’d be in a delightful mood now that you’ve got your little waif safely out of Pinworth’s clutches. Though it almost might have been worth it to see his reaction once he managed to strip her clothes off.”
“We wouldn’t have been there to see it,” Phelan said in a reproving voice. “And I doubt it would have been a pretty sight.”
“Really?” Val looked at him curiously. “Now, I happen to find young Julian, or whoever she is, quite enticing. I suppose you prefer ‘em well rounded, but I wouldn’t mind seeing her …”
“I’m talking about Pinworth,” Phelan said tightly, retying the broken corset string.
“You’ve got a point there. Still, once he discovered Julian was a girl, he might have been persuaded to change his proclivities.”
“You are a naive one, aren’t you, Val?” Phelan said, yanking the strings mercilessly tight. “He’d simply use her as a boy. Something she wouldn’t have found pleasant at all.”
Val looked a trifle pale. “Fortunately, I haven’t your breadth of knowledge. This is the first time I’ve even been out of Yorkshire, and the habits of pederasts aren’t part of my experience.”
“I try to avoid ‘em myself,” Phelan said, giving his brother a shove. “Try to behave yourself, brat. Young Julian has already noticed a family resemblance, and once she gets settled in here, I’d wager she’ll see through your little disguise in no time.”
“She’s hardly likely to give us away. She has her own secrets. What do you suppose she is—a runaway heiress? Maybe she’s the answer to my problems. After all, you’re the heir. I don’t have a feather to fly with.”
Phelan glared at him. “Don’t count on it. She’s older than she looks, probably in her early twenties. And if she had some convenient fortune, she’d hardly be racketing around Exeter, wearing someone’s castoffs.”
Valerian yanked the dress over his head, glaring at his reflection. “Then who do you think she is?” he demanded, flinging himself down in front of his dressing table and staring at his reflection. He’d already shaved himself very smoothly indeed, and the careful application of makeup covered any incipient beard growth.
“I don’t know,” his brother said. “But I mean to find out.”
Valerian glanced up at him as he whisked a hare’s foot full of powder across his chin. “Are you planning to bed her?” he asked bluntly. “Is that why you brought her here? Because you wanted her for yourself?”
Lesser men would have quailed before Phelan’s cold glare, but Valerian had never been afraid of his older brother. “Just because you’re wearing skirts doesn’t mean I won’t thrash you if you deserve it,” Phelan said in an even voice.
“You could always try.” Valerian’s response was equally pleasant. “All right, so you acted out of the purest motives. What are you going to do about her?”
“I haven’t decided. You refuse to leave England, and short of coshing you over the head and carrying you off, I’m stuck here as well. Without me, you’ll be staring the hangman in the face in no time.”
“I can take care of myself!” Valerian shot back.
“Why do people keep telling me that?” Phelan asked wearily. “With your hot temper you’d end up challenging someone to a duel, or something equally outrageous. I can imagi
ne you storming back to Yorkshire and insisting that Lady Margery tell the truth. Something with which she has little acquaintance. If you refuse to leave England, so do I.”
“I don’t want to stay forever,” Val said in a more conciliatory tone. “Lord knows I can’t wait to get out of these damned skirts. But running is so blasted cowardly!”
“We’ll have to leave eventually,” Phelan said, apparently unmoved by his brother’s bitterness. “You’ll be expected to produce an offspring sooner or later, and that’s beyond even your acting abilities.” He leaned forward and tugged one of Valerian’s flaxen strands of hair. “Though you do make a lovely girl, brother,” he teased.
Valerian batted his hand away. “A diamond of the first water,” he said wryly. “My nose is too aquiline, my mouth too big, my chin too stubborn, my chest too flat—”
“And your feet too big. At least you’re fully as vain as any woman I’ve ever met,” Phelan said smoothly, and ducked when Valerian sent a perfume bottle hurtling in his direction.
“You’re still avoiding the subject. What are you going to do with the girl now that you’ve brought her here?” Valerian persisted.
Phelan shrugged. “Not what you’d do in my place, obviously.”
“The more fool you, then. I wish you joy of her, though you don’t seem very appreciative of her subtle charms. I have better things to do today than watch you waste a lovely woman. I’m off for a round of morning visits.”
Phelan frowned, but Valerian was unmoved. “Whom do you plan on visiting?”
“Oh, I thought I might stop in at the Fowl and Feathers and see if Mowbray has some of that excellent brandy he’d be willing to part with.”
“I imagined he does. The free traders are active in these parts, and I have no doubt Mowbray’s cellar is filled with finer French wine than we’ve seen in a decade.”
“And then I thought I might stop in at Hackett’s Library and see if they have any new gothic romances.”
“You don’t really have to read that trash, Valerian. Lord knows no one would realize the difference if you simply pretended.”
“You’re wrong, brother mine. I pick up a great deal of invaluable information from those terrifying love stories. I’ve learned more about the convolutions of the female mind than I ever thought possible.”
“Such diligence in the pursuit of your role is admirable,” Phelan murmured.
Valerian smiled wickedly, a very smug, masculine smile. “Don’t fool yourself, brother. I intend to apply my newfound knowledge in far more profitable areas.”
“Oh, God,” Phelan muttered. “Not the bluestocking?”
“But such a lovely bluestocking,” Valerian said, patting his silken blond hair. “And I can tell she is quite fascinated with me.”
“Val …” Phelan warned. “We’re playing a dangerous game. You know as well as I do the Bow Street runners are after you, and there’s a limit to what I can do to protect you. Don’t endanger yourself for the sake of a passing fancy. Let us leave.”
Val’s smile was rueful. “That’s the trouble, Phelan. I’m not certain that it is. A simple fancy. Or the slightest bit passing.”
Phelan’s expression was nothing short of grim. “You’ve spent your entire twenty-five years falling in love with every presentable female in sight. You can’t choose an impossible time like this to finally conceive an eternal passion.”
“I don’t think one can be logical about these things, old man,” Valerian said. “Trust me, I’m fighting it. Manfully, I might add.” He kicked at his yellow-flowered skirts, then glanced up at his older brother. “I suggest you do the same. Young Julian has already needlessly complicated our lives. Don’t make things worse by bedding her.”
“She’s pretending to be a boy, Valerian. I’m hardly likely to convince her I share Pinworth’s oddities.”
“You could always persuade her to give up her masquerade.”
“I’m not ruled by my appetites. Your safety and clearing our name come ahead of any stray attraction I might feel. If we find out who really killed Lord Harry, well and good. He and I always despised each other, and he probably deserved his fate. I just don’t wish to see you pay the price for someone else’s crime. As for the girl, we’ve already discussed the fact that she’s not my type. I like buxom, feminine blondes.”
“After all,” said Val with a pronounced simper, “you married one.”
A quiet knock on the door stopped Phelan just as he was about to give his brother a less-than-gentle punch on his shoulder. Hannigan opened the door without waiting, and his expression as he gazed on Valerian was, as usual, doleful and amused. “I thought you might like to know, your lordship, that the girl’s awake.”
“Did you tell Hannigan about her gender, or did he guess?” Val wrested himself from Phelan’s bruising grip.
“Hannigan knows everything,” Phelan said.
“Except how to get out of this current tangle, my lord,” Hannigan said heavily.
“I thought he was going to stop with the ‘my lords’ and ‘your lordships,’” Val said. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to overhear plain Mr. Ramsey being addressed so grandly.”
“Jealous, brat?” Phelan inquired coolly. “I’d gladly give you the blasted title if I could.”
“Go to hell,” Valerian shot back, deeply offended.
“Hannigan has a head on his shoulders, which is more than I can say for you most of the time,” Phelan continued. “He knows when he needs to be discreet. Where’s the girl right now, Hannigan?”
“In the kitchen with Dulcie, eating enough to feed an army. Can’t imagine that Bessie Mowbray would let the girl starve.”
“I imagine her hunger goes back further than the few days she’s been in Hampton Regis,” Phelan said absently. He turned back to look at his unrepentant brother. “Are you certain it’s a wise idea to pursue your bluestocking, Val? She’s not a fool. I suspect if it weren’t for her presence here, you’d be far more amenable to leaving.”
Valerian smiled ruefully. Phelan knew him far too well for him to deny it. “She’s not my bluestocking,” he said instead. “Her name’s Sophie, remember? And if I don’t have something to distract me from these damnable skirts, I’ll end up strangling someone, and they’ll hang me for that murder, and all this will have been for nothing.”
“It depends on whom you’d strangle,” Phelan said with a ghost of a smile.
“I wish your mother were within arm’s reach,” Val grumbled.
“I’m not certain I blame you.”
“I’m only looking for a little distraction, Phelan. You don’t have to worry that I’ll be indiscreet. And for all that Miss de Quincey has a lively, intelligent mind, she’s also quite naive. She probably wouldn’t realize I’m a man if I stripped to the buff to convince her.”
“And I can count on you not putting it to the test, can’t I?” Phelan said mildly enough.
Val gave him a bewitching smile. “As much as you trust yourself with your little waif, brother mine.” He scooped up a lace shawl and draped it artfully around his arms, disguising some of the muscled strength. “Don’t expect me back at any particular time. I’m hoping to be invited to the de Quinceys’ for dinner.”
“Have a care, Val,” Phelan warned in a somber voice.
“I always do,” Val replied, striding toward the door, at the last moment remembering to moderate his walk to a more discreet pace.
Phelan’s only response was a disbelieving smile.
Miss Sophie de Quincey, beloved and only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Percival de Quincey, was not in the best of moods. The latest novel by Mrs. Radcliffe was a dead bore; her bosom bow, Miss Prunella Styles, had decided to be totally tedious and fall in love with a very handsome young man of her parents’ choosing; and even the weather refused to cooperate. It was raining this morning, a cold, soaking rain, when she most particularly wanted to go for a solitary stroll on the beach and daydream about pirates. She sat in the window seat of the library
in her family’s home on the outskirts of Hampton Regis and stared out at the rain disconsolately.
Sophie was in general a sweet-tempered girl, a little too smart and a little too pretty for her own good, but with a generous heart. Today, however, she felt like an absolute fishwife, and only the knowledge that the sophisticated and fascinating Mrs. Ramsey had presented her card enabled Sophie to rouse herself from an incipient fit of sulks.
She’d never been one for crushes on older women, unlike Prunella or her other schoolmates, but there was something about Valerie Ramsey that absolutely enthralled Sophie. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, as if she had no nagging self-doubts, her creamy white shoulders thrown back, her strong chin thrust forward, her silky blond hair tied back in a casual bundle of curls. Perhaps it was the deep drawl in her voice, or the unexpected strength one suspected lay beneath her overlarge hands. She was a woman who hadn’t been enslaved by the rigors of marriage, a woman with a mind and a will of her own, and Sophie wanted to be just like her.
“Mrs. Ramsey,” she cried, rising from the window seat and rushing across the room to embrace the tall woman. She kissed the air beside Mrs. Ramsey’s cheek, and found herself caught in those strong hands as she smiled shyly up at her new friend. “I was about to die from boredom, and here you’ve come to save me!”
“Surely not,” Mrs. Ramsey said in her husky voice. “A young girl with your intellect could never be bored. What’s wrong with all the young men in this town, that you have to sit alone on a rainy day?”
“I’m not interested in young men,” Sophie said frankly. “I’d much rather spend my time with an intelligent woman like you.”
A faint smile played around her companion’s well-molded lips. “Would you, now? I must say I’m flattered. But sooner or later you’re going to have to develop a taste for the gentlemen. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” Sophie said, drawing her guest back to the window seat and pulling her down beside her for a comfortable coze. The large area was surprisingly crowded with the two of them sitting there, but Sophie simply moved closer to her idol. “Old enough to know whether I like men or not. I don’t know if I wish to marry.”