Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  God, she could drown in those eyes. As she stared up into them, she frantically tried to concentrate on something else. Riding astride horses named after demons. Overflowing cesspits. Dalrymple. Anything else but Hirst’s eyes.

  “Hirst!” came a scandalized voice ahead of them, breaking the stalemate between them.

  Davina shook her head to clear it and turned to find Sir Wesley approaching them from the entrance to the garden. When he noticed how close they were standing, his expression grew alarmed.

  “I say! What the devil is going on here?”

  That was exactly what Davina wanted to know.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blue Ruin For Breakfast

  Davina sprang away from Hirst and tugged at her hopelessly creased jacket in an attempt to make herself presentable. The attempt was futile, judging by Sir Wesley’s growing concern.

  “Where have you been? And where is my charlière?” he demanded as he approached.

  Davina snorted at this. Of course that was her brother’s priority.

  “The tale is too long to tell, Sir Wesley,” Hirst said brightly, with no evidence of their tense standoff remaining in his wry expression. “The short of it is, we took an unexpected excursion last night, wrecked it, and spent the night in Hebden.”

  Wesley’s eyes shot wide. “Wrecked it?”

  “Don’t fret, I remember right where it landed.” Hirst sauntered up to her brother and patted him reassuringly on the back. “I know you must have worried, especially about Mr. Fawkes, owing to your close relationship. I didn’t let a single hair on his head be harmed. Why, we even shared a room at the coaching inn. Kept my eye on him all night long.”

  “Sh-sh-shared a room?” Wesley said in a fair imitation of Cousin Edmund, his eyes widening even more.

  “Shared a bed as well. Last one in the inn. It was rather biblical, between the deluge and the close quarters.”

  Wesley’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. So did Davina’s. She could have kicked Hirst. It was as if he were intentionally making everything sound sordid.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” he continued, extracting the broken release valve from his pocket and handing it over to Sir Wesley. “This fell off.”

  As her brother stared down at the valve with a forlorn expression, Pilby appeared at the edge of the veranda overlooking the garden, his usually imperturbable expression just a bit perturbed at the sight they presented. Ten years in her mother’s employ had not managed to shake Pilby’s composure, and yet Davina had managed to do so in a matter of days. She wasn’t sure it was something to be proud of, however.

  “Ah, Pilby!” Hirst said, striding in the butler’s direction. “Just the man I was looking for. Have you seen Coombes about lately?”

  Pilby finally managed to peel his eyes away from their filthy clothes, looking a bit bewildered. “Sir?”

  “Coombes. My valet. Is he still lurking about, or has he done a runner back to London?”

  Pilby blinked at an alarming rate. “I believe Mr. Coombes is…about,” he said dubiously.

  “Good,” Hirst said. “My secretary here seems to think it prudent to put Coombes to work.”

  “What?” Davina said, startled.

  “Coombes, Fawkes,” Hirst said impatiently, as if she should know what the devil he was talking about. “My valet. You’ve made me see the use in having him do his job. And since you are so knowledgeable about such matters, I think it only fitting you see to the man’s reformation.”

  “What!” she exclaimed at the same time as Pilby and her brother.

  Hirst arched an eyebrow at the three of them. “Is there a problem?”

  Pilby’s spine went rigid. “No, sir,” he said, though his teeth seemed to be grinding as he did so.

  “You can’t possibly be…” Davina began.

  “Is there a reason you can’t do this, Fawkes?” Hirst interrupted, his tone suddenly cool. “You seem such an expert on the subject of courtship, which you insist includes having a valet to turn me out properly. Do you not wish for me to have my heart’s desire?”

  Her own heart stuttered at this outrageous question. “And your heart’s desire is Lady Ambrosia?” she said in disbelief.

  He was smiling down at her, but it seemed as frigid as his tone had become. “I told you I’d have her and no other.”

  “Liar,” she muttered under her breath.

  Oh, he heard her. His smile became utterly glacial, and he bent his head toward her ear. “You would know,” he whispered, his breath tickling the hairs at the back of her neck.

  She shivered.

  He straightened and quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “What do you mean?” she demanded, shaken. Surely he didn’t know…

  He gestured toward his black eye, then at her own fading one. “We all have our secrets, Fawkes. Even prim little dandies like you.”

  She released a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding.

  “Now, will you help me or not, Fawkes? You were desperate for employment just a few days ago, and now you balk when I actually give you something useful to do?”

  How? How could she possibly be infatuated with such an utter dollophead? If she’d known her criticism of his appearance would land her here, she would have kept her mouth shut. But she was not about to back down, even from a challenge she didn’t want.

  “By the time I’m through with him, he’ll have you turned out finer than Brummell himself,” she declared.

  He looked positively delighted by her proclamation. “Who the devil is Brummell?” he asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “You know very well who Brummell is,” she gritted out.

  Hirst and Pilby took off toward the castle, and she began to follow, but Sir Wesley’s hand on her wrist stopped her. She sighed and faced him, bracing herself for the inevitable lecture.

  “Dash it all, Davina!” he hissed.

  “It was an emergency,” she whispered back, not knowing how else to explain the bizarre events of the night before. “And a long story. And of course nothing happened.”

  “Mother would…”

  “Please don’t drag her into this.”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “This is not going to end well,” he warned.

  She sighed. “So you’ve said.”

  “You’re in over your head with Hirst, mark my words!”

  Sir Wesley was right about that. She just didn’t plan on admitting it to him or anyone else for that matter. “Please try not to ruin everything.”

  “Speaking of ruination,” he intoned ominously. “You spent the night with him? In the same bed? What were you thinking?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, nothing happened. Besides, he thinks I am a man!” she hissed.

  Wesley set his jaw, a determined look coming over him. “That doesn’t stop some men from taking advantage,” he muttered cryptically.

  She rolled her eyes. She was sheltered, but not completely oblivious. She knew exactly what her brother was insinuating. “Well, you needn’t worry on that score. Though I think he’d be more inclined to make love to his inventions than anything else. A trait I think the both of you might have in common.”

  Wesley gaped at her, looking positively scandalized, and she took the opportunity to return to Hirst’s side before he could berate her any more. She knew he meant well, but she was having a hard enough time keeping her head above water without Wesley pouring even more on top of her.

  Hirst had paused with Pilby at the doors to the back veranda and was watching them scurry to catch up with a cryptic smile.

  “Problem?” he called out to them.

  Wesley opened his mouth as if to speak, and Davina stepped on his foot before he could.

  “No problem at all,” she called back hastily. She gave her brother a warning look and hurried to catch up with Hirst. Wesley fell into step beside her with a resigned groan.

  “Work might prove a bit…difficult for Mr. Coombes at the moment, sir,
” Pilby said as he led them into the castle. “Last I saw him, he was reposing in my wine pantry.”

  Hirst shot Pilby a knowing look. “Reposing, is it? That more of your fancy butler talk, Pilby?”

  Pilby gave another small huff and looked as if it took all of his will not to roll his eyes. “His repose might have been influenced by the bottle of spirits Mr. Bonnet gave the man last night,” he admitted stiffly. “He is certainly in no fit state for Mr. Fawkes to be in his company.”

  “Hear, hear,” Wesley muttered beside her. She elbowed her brother in the side and glared at Pilby for good measure, but Pilby refused to acknowledge her at all.

  “Oh, I believe our Mr. Fawkes has fortitude enough for Coombes, despite looking as if he’s just out of short pants,” Hirst said briskly.

  “I am five and twenty,” she reminded him, just in case he’d forgotten.

  “Of course you are,” Hirst said dryly.

  She bit her tongue before she could dig her hole any deeper and followed the rest of the way in silence.

  They did indeed find Hirst’s erstwhile valet in Pilby’s pantry, laid out across the top of a pair of wooden wine crates, his cheeks and nose pink from drink, and a half-empty bottle of Blue Ruin still clutched in a limp hand. He stank of the distillery, but even in his stupor, at least he was impeccably turned out in a neat, dark blue superfine jacket and buff silk pantaloons, snoring loudly into a beautifully crafted cravat.

  “I say!” Wesley exclaimed as he entered the room with an appalled expression, futilely waving away the liquor’s fumes.

  Pilby, who’d covered his nose with a handkerchief, stared down in disgust at Mr. Coombes. “He’s like this every day, sir.”

  Hirst grunted and kicked at the valet’s legs none too gently. Coombes grumbled incoherently and kicked back, but he was so loose limbed that the motion sent him sprawling to the floor, the half-empty gin bottle rolling across the room and stopping at Davina’s feet. The man curled on his side and continued to snore, undaunted by the fall, and when Hirst prodded his side with his boot, he merely waved him away with a groan.

  This was going nowhere. Davina picked up the bottle, walked over to the man, and dumped the remainder over his head.

  This got Coombes’ attention. He jolted awake, sputtering out curses and rubbing the liquor out of his eyes. He finally noticed the crowd standing over him, and the gin-induced flush to his cheeks was quickly replaced by a slightly verdant pallor.

  “Mr. Hirst…” he cried, staggering to his feet. He swayed so much that Pilby was forced to prop him up. The butler’s forehead wrinkled at the indignity.

  Hirst gave Davina a droll look. “Effective, but a waste of good liquor.”

  “Your definition of good liquor is yet another point we must work on,” she retorted, trying to wave the fumes away. The smell was only slightly less caustic than turpentine. “And it was that or let you kick him bloody.”

  “Yet you did the same to me,” he said, indicating his bruised eye.

  “That was an accident,” she returned.

  “And what about our first meeting, when you prodded me in the ribs? With a stick?”

  “I was making sure you were alive! And no blood was involved.”

  He snorted. “That you know of.”

  “All of God’s creatures could have known, considering your state of dress at the time.” Or lack thereof.

  “I say!” Wesley exclaimed again. “State of dress?”

  They both ignored him.

  “Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt,” he muttered.

  “Then why did you kick him, if you know how painful it is?” she demanded, jerking her thumb at the valet, who was currently tilting worryingly to the left, watching the two of them bicker with a befuddled expression. Pilby, who looked just as confused by the exchange, held Coombes by the sleeve so he wouldn’t collapse.

  “Because he deserved it! Look at him!” Hirst cried.

  “As I found you in a similar state my first night in the castle when you commandeered my bed,”—Sir Wesley gasped at this and was once again ignored—“I expect that you’d have more sympathy for Mr. Coombes,” she said, relishing the astonishment she’d managed to put on Hirst’s face.

  “That is…totally different!” he insisted. “That was a life and death situation.” She snorted at that bouncer, and his glare deepened. “Mr. Coombes is my servant. I’m not paying him to be a sot.”

  “Congratulations,” she said. “It’s the first time you’ve ever sounded even close to being a suitable match for Lady Ambrosia. Just like a proper aristocrat, holding your servants to a higher moral standard than your own. Well done.”

  Pilby, Coombes, and her brother gawped at her impudence. She would have gawped at herself if it had been physically possible. Other people had cowed her all of her life, and an intimidating man like Hirst should have done the same, yet he’d inspired the exact opposite response in her from the very beginning. Her mother would have banished her to her room for a week if Davina had talked to her like that. Dalrymple probably would have blackened her other eye.

  Hirst just grinned, his pale eyes glimmering with delight.

  Davina’s heart fluttered wildly in her chest.

  This. This was why she was so stupidly taken with the man.

  Hirst turned to his valet. “What do you have to say for yourself, then, Mr. Coombes?” he asked with mock severity.

  Now that he was the focus of Hirst’s scrutiny, Coombes looked as if he might cry. Or cast up his accounts. Or both at once. Someone so faint of heart had absolutely no chance of surviving in this household.

  But she decided coddling the man would get them nowhere. “Yes, Mr. Coombes. Look at him. No self-respecting valet would let his master exist in such a deplorable state.”

  “Oi!” Hirst laughed. “I’m standing right here!”

  Coombes began to look a bit offended at Davina’s accusations. Some small part of his brainbox must have escaped the sousing after all.

  Davina plowed onward. “Are you a valet at all, or are you some ill-trained charlatan playing Mr. Hirst for a fool?”

  That hit its mark, for Coombes straightened—well, as much as he was able to in his stupor—and tugged at the ends of his waistcoat, as if doing so would recover his lost dignity. It was a valiant, if unsuccessful, effort.

  “My training is impeccable, sirrah,” he declared haughtily, a little of his professional pride returning from its long, gin-soaked holiday. Though his delivery was ruined by a hiccough. “I was the valet of the Duke of Montford. There is no em—hic—ployer more exacting and—hic—meticulous.”

  He was not wrong. The duke was known for his excellent sartorial taste, though the man took his toilette to the extreme, changing his cravat every hour and cringing at the slightest stain. As the duke was married to her cousin, Davina had witnessed his fastidiousness for herself. Once upon a time, Lady Benwick had even thought to pair Davina off with Montford, but Davina was rather glad that idea had fallen flat on its face. Astrid was welcome to her squeamish duke, for Davina was sure the man would have driven her to Bedlam in less than a day.

  Between Montford and Hirst, it was no wonder Coombes had turned to the bottle.

  “And I am quite at a loss as to how you could possibly be—hic—qualified to criticize me in ma—hic—matters of grooming.” He gave her person a judgmental yet slightly woozy side-eye.

  She glanced down at her deplorable toilette and cringed inwardly. She’d nearly managed to forget what a mess she was. She didn’t thank the valet for reminding her.

  “I had a rough night,” she ground out.

  Coombes squinted at her suspiciously. “Who’re you anyway?”

  Hirst smacked her on the back so vigorously she lurched forward nearly as clumsily as Coombes. “This is my secretary, Mr. Fawkes. He’s graciously offered to help dry you out and get you back to knotting cravats.”

  Coombes didn’t look pleased by this news. He drew himself up—or at least he tried to
. He stumbled forward, nearly taking Sir Wesley down with him.

  “I say!” her brother cried, hoisting the valet back to his feet. “Poor showing, Mr. Coombes! Poor showing!”

  “There shall be no more of your loafing about, Coombes,” she said briskly. “You must start doing your job. With his height and…er, bearing,” she paused, her cheeks heating as visions of Hirst’s magnificently naked torso bombarded her mind, “Mr. Hirst hardly needs much embellishment, and certainly no padding. Dark colors, a pale waistcoat, and well folded cravat should be enough.”

  Coombes’ defensiveness suddenly faded in the face of her sound advice. “That’s what I said, But Mr. Bonnet insisted on quite th—hic—th’ opposite.”

  She shared a skeptical look with Hirst. Even he seemed to find this news alarming. “Under no circumstances,” Hirst said, “do I wish to look like Mr. Bonnet. Why the devil are you taking advice from Bones, Mr. Coombes?”

  Coombes, caught off guard at being directly addressed by Hirst again, spluttered in wordless panic and glanced imploringly at Davina.

  Davina sighed. If the man were looking for sympathy, he’d find none with her. “Perhaps you have addled your brain from drink. Shall you, an expert in fashion and a valet to dukes, listen to a man with such poor tailoring and even poorer taste?”

  Coombes pulled away from Sir Wesley into a soldierly stance and lifted his chin, only barely wavering on his feet. “No, I don’t believe I shall.”

  “It will be enough to convince Mr. Hirst to put on clothes at all without worrying about Mr. Bonnet,” she reminded him.

  “Oi!” Hirst cried again, sounding caught between offense and amusement. “I’m still here!”

  Davina ignored Hirst and clapped Coombes on the shoulder in what she hoped was a manly gesture of solidarity. It certainly seemed to be how Hirst expressed himself. Coombes staggered forward on wobbly legs and nearly fell face-first into the wine racks. “Don’t fret, Coombes. I’ll be right next to you the whole time. I won’t let him bully you.”

  Hirst snorted at this. “Bully him? Bully him?” he murmured under his breath, loud enough for only Davina to hear. “When would I have bullied him, when I’ve spoken two sentences to him in all the time he’s been here?”