Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  “If you say so, Mr. Fawkes,” Mr. Coombes returned stiffly, looking relieved at her words. “But I won’t even think of—hic—dressing him with that hair and that…that dead animal on his face,” he said disdainfully.

  “That’s the spirit, Mr. Coombes,” she said.

  “Well, my work here is done,” Hirst said with too much relish for Davina’s taste. He turned to Sir Wesley. “What say we go and fetch your charlière, Sir Wesley?”

  Wesley, who looked as if his brainbox might have been broken by the last fifteen minutes of his life, nodded weakly at this proposition.

  “What?” Davina cried. “You’re going to leave me here with…with this?” She shot her hand out at the utter disaster that was Mr. Coombes.

  Hirst just smirked at her. “You’re the one who thinks I need a flea bath if I am to win the lady. And since you put such stock in Coombes’ professional services, you can deal with him.”

  “Hardly my job!” she scoffed.

  “It is now. Or did we not just agree that you would take Coombes in hand out in the garden?”

  To say she had agreed to this ridiculous scheme was painting it a bit brown. But it was too late to back down now. She’d backed herself into this corner. She sighed. “Fine. I’ll consider it an act of altruism. No one should be allowed to walk around as you do.”

  He stroked his hirsute cheeks and smirked at her. “For some reason, I think you rather like me as I am.”

  Miraculously, she didn’t blush. But she did snort derisively, struggling to find a suitable denial to such a blatant…truth.

  With that, he strode toward the door. When Wesley made no immediate move to follow, he raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Coming, Sir Wesley?” he asked archly.

  Wesley glanced back and forth between Hirst and Davina, looking as if he might have a nervous collapse. When she scowled at him, he blanched and jumped to follow Hirst.

  “Rude,” she said when the two men had departed, still breathless from the whirlwind that was Julian Hirst.

  She turned to face Pilby and Coombes, at a loss about what to do next, but it was obvious that she’d get no help from her current companions. Pilby just stared at her in utter disappointment, while the valet looked caught between befuddlement, panic, and queasiness.

  Coombes’ stomach broke their stalemate. He suddenly darted over to the opposite corner of the room and began to retch into an empty wine crate. As the crate was made up of crudely hatched panels, the contents soon began to leak out of the sides.

  Pilby shook his head and sighed in resignation. “This won’t end well,” he said grimly.

  In this instance, she was inclined to agree.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Care and Maintenance of A Rogue

  The good thing about spending the whole day helping Sir Wesley retrieve his charlière was that he avoided any interaction with his houseguests. The bad thing was that he was forced to endure hours of the baronet at his most neurotic. Between his worry over his balloon and his clumsy avoidance of any topic related to “Fawkes” (he was a truly horrible liar), Sir Wesley was in rare form.

  When Julian returned to the castle after nightfall, all he wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. It had been a long few days, and even he knew he was pushing his body’s limits. Instead, he was waylaid inside his room by Mr. Coombes. His valet—sober, for once—was faffing about a steaming copper tub, his intentions more than clear. Ah, the flea bath.

  Julian sighed wearily at the ambush. Fawkes had wasted no time with the valet.

  Coombes gasped and flailed when he noticed Julian standing in the doorway, dropping a block of soap from a silver tray in the process. He scrambled to recover the fallen soap, inadvertently knocking over the shaving stand next to the tub. The metal tools clattered to the floorboards, and Julian winced at the sound.

  It was exactly why he’d not bothered to put Coombes to work in the first place. Some things even Fawkes’ obstinate determination could never change. The poor man was terrified of him. Julian usually took satisfaction in inspiring such fear, but Coombes’ inordinate display was too off-putting even for him.

  “What is going on here?” he demanded, though he’d worked it out for himself. People didn’t call him a genius just for the hell of it, after all.

  “I…I am to bathe you, sir,” Coombes stuttered out.

  “The devil you say.”

  “Mr. Fawkes said…”

  “Mr. Fawkes? He put you up to this, then?”

  Coombes looked as if he might be sick. “Er…”

  He decided to take pity on the poor man and began to undress himself. A bath did sound rather appealing right now, despite his exhaustion.

  Coombes looked as if he wanted to assist, but was too terrified to do so. He settled for collecting Julian’s clothes as they were discarded, lifting the soiled articles between his thumb and forefinger and eyeing them as if the grime on them was catching.

  “Burn them if you must, Coombes,” Julian said as he stepped into the tub.

  Coombes startled again, nearly dropping all of the clothes. “Sir?!”

  Julian ignored him and sank into the hot, fragrant waters with a pleased sigh. He could get used to this, if daily baths were what proper valets provided. A few minutes later, he heard a clatter next to his head. He cracked an eye open to find Coombes fumbling about the righted shaving stand, and all of Julian’s relaxed muscles immediately tensed again in alarm.

  He sat up in the water and glared at the valet. “Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

  Coombes jumped at the sound of Julian’s voice, and a straight razor flew out of his hand and toward Julian’s face. Julian just managed to catch the thing by the handle before it could cut off more than his beard.

  “You’re not shaving me,” he said firmly. He suddenly had a brilliant idea. “Fetch Fawkes, will you? He can do the honors.”

  “Sir?” Coombes croaked out, bewildered.

  Julian just eyed the man, and Coombes bolted for the door like a frightened gazelle.

  He settled back into the tub and waited. He couldn’t wait to see Fawkes’ face when she walked in the room and found him in the bath. Granted, he’d been nearly naked at their first meeting, and again last night when he’d stripped for bed (her prudish hesitation to join him made a lot more sense now) but he suspected that knowing he was wearing nothing beneath the bathwater was going to make her squirm.

  It was exactly what he meant to do to her, until she finally admitted who she was. He was fairly certain that Fawkes didn’t know her arse from her elbow when it came to shaving, but he wanted to see what Fawkes would do, how much she would risk, to try and convince Julian she knew what she was doing.

  Julian considered the challenge worth a nick or two. Maybe.

  And anything was better than Coombes’ fumbling.

  Julian didn’t have to wait long. Coombes soon returned with Fawkes in tow. She was looking delightfully annoyed at the summoning.

  “Coombes said you needed…” She was nearly halfway into the room and her sentence when she spotted him. She stopped abruptly, turned away, and blushed.

  “Coombes did not tell me you were still in the bath,” she said, flustered, sending a scolding glance in the valet’s direction. Coombes studiously ignored her in favor of frantically folding up some already folded toweling.

  “He was just following your instructions to scrub me up,” Julian drawled. “Show Lady Ambrosia what could be all hers.” He gestured down the length of his body, hidden under the suds. “I think you’ll be shocked at how handsome I am beneath my scruff, Fawkes.”

  Fawkes’ blush deepened. “I have only known you for a few days, but I have a feeling that you will never cease to shock me,” she muttered. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Since you are such an expert in these matters, I thought you could attend to my toilette.”

  “What?” Fawkes practically squawked, forgetting to be embarrassed. “You want me to…to bathe yo
u?”

  Why, yes, yes indeed. That was precisely what he wanted, considering how his body had just responded to those words. He ignored it.

  “I need a shave, and I am certainly not allowing Coombes to go within five feet of my face.”

  Coombes looked relieved.

  Fawkes looked rather alarmed, and Julian couldn’t say he wasn’t a bit as well.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  Fawkes exchanged a glance with Coombes, who shrugged and scrambled out of the door clutching a pile of clothing in front of him like a shield, muttering something about fetching more hot water from the kitchens. Fawkes would get no help there. “You want me to shave you now?”

  He began to stand, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. “I suppose we could do it outside of the bath…”

  Fawkes lurched forward, pushing Julian back down by the shoulder. “No, I’ll…er, shave you there,” she said. “Just as you are. In the bath.”

  Julian smiled at the little deceiver as she stared down at the shaving stand with a look of total incomprehension. She hesitated only a moment, however, before dipping a brush in some sort of fragrant smelling lather. She then proceeded to smear the concoction all over Julian’s chin and cheeks. It was almost as though she knew what she was about.

  Until she nearly poked Julian’s eye out with the brush. The one she hadn’t already nearly taken out the night before.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Fawkes murmured, throwing the brush down and dabbing the soap out of Julian’s eye.

  He seriously regretted starting this stupid game with her. He waved her off and wiped at his burning eye. When he could see again, he found Fawkes picking up the straight razor from the tray. He leaned away as Fawkes guided the blade toward his face, the metal glinting menacingly in the firelight. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so thrilled at the idea of catching Fawkes in a lie. Not when his jugular was so exposed.

  He craned his head back as far as the copper tub would allow. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”

  “You’re asking me this now?” Fawkes said in exasperation, pausing the blade just under his nose.

  “That is not an answer,” he muttered, his vision going crossways as he tried to keep the razor in his line of sight. “Are you even old enough to grow a beard?”

  Fawkes’ eye roll was a Cheltenham Tragedy all on its own. “Is that dubious accomplishment absolutely necessary to prove my manhood?” she asked, blade still poised menacingly close.

  “Yes, it rather is,” he said.

  “I am five and twenty, as I’ve told you before,” Fawkes ground out, clearly annoyed.

  “As you say,” he said doubtfully.

  Fawkes glared at him and gripped the side of his face to hold him in place before she put the blade to his chin. He sucked in a breath and held it.

  She pulled away once more in irritation. “I could fetch Coombes to actually do his job.”

  He shuddered at just the memory of his valet’s shaky hands and released his breath. “I’d rather an untrained monkey shave me than Coombes,” he said. “Just don’t cut off my ears.”

  “If you keep moving around, I’m liable to cut off a whole lot more,” she retorted.

  Julian held himself rigid as Fawkes scraped the razor down his cheek and sighed in relief when the outer layer of his skin remained in tact. When the second and third swipe failed to cause him to bleed out, he slowly allowed himself to relax, though he kept his eyes on her the whole time, just in case.

  He still found it difficult to believe that it had taken him so long to see through her disguise, though now that he considered her in such close proximity, he could see how he’d been fooled, especially when he’d been so distracted by his work and Kildale. Fawkes had the face and build that could have gone either way. She had a patrician nose, high cheekbones, and a lean, willowy body with very few curves to speak of (well, aside from that arse of hers—which Julian was not fixated on at all).

  It would take someone very brazen—or very desperate—to disguise one’s sex, especially someone of Fawkes’ station in life, where everyone was subject to so much public scrutiny. He inwardly applauded Fawkes for her cleverness. Most women in her position would have tried to rough themselves up a bit so as to appear more masculine. But Fawkes had done just the opposite, with the fussy cravats, ridiculous boots, and rather outrageously colored jackets.

  The illusion had been paradoxically plausible. Julian had known far too many popinjays back in London just as insufferably pretty and artistically turned out, attempting to gild their soft, pasty bodies that had never seen a day of real work in any way they could. Fawkes would have fit in quite nicely with that set.

  A short time later, she put the razor down and stepped away, surveying her work. He smoothed his hands over his chin and cheeks, pleasantly surprised by the lack of blood.

  “That was painless,” he said.

  “Speak for yourself,” she muttered.

  He began to stand up. Her eyes widened in surprise and her cheeks immediately turned scarlet. “Wha…what are you doing?” she demanded, backing away.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” he retorted. “Getting out of the tub before I take on any more water.”

  “Oh,” she said, scrambling around the room blindly for the toweling, which had been hanging right next to her on the shaving stand. It took her much too long to remember that and return to where she began.

  He quirked an eyebrow at her and continued to stand. “Is there a problem, Mr. Fawkes?” he asked mildly.

  “Wha…? No, there’s no problem,” the little liar said breathlessly, snatching up the toweling and trying to extend it in his direction while looking the opposite way.

  He ignored her offering and stepped from the tub, dripping water all over the rug, waiting her out. He could hear her gasp at his abrupt exit and smiled inwardly to himself. “There must be a problem, Fawkes, for you look seconds away from a swoon. Has all of this steam addled your brainbox?”

  Fawkes squeezed her eyes shut, the flush in her cheeks spreading down her slender neck and disappearing into the folds of her wilting cravat. She swallowed dryly. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Hirst,” she said hoarsely, and shoved the toweling at Julian.

  He caught not only the toweling, but also her retreating hand. It was cool and soft to the touch, and he suddenly found that he didn’t want to let go of it.

  “Are you sure, Fawkes?” he asked in a low voice he usually reserved for seductions. Not that he was seducing her.

  Was he?

  She cleared her throat. “Quite,” she whispered, extricating her hand.

  He decided to take pity on her and wrapped the toweling around his middle.

  “Well, what do you think?” he demanded, when she’d been silent too long for his liking.

  She froze, her eyes still squeezed shut. “I beg your pardon?”

  He rounded to her other side and waited until she finally opened her eyes. They flicked down his torso, saw that he was no longer completely naked, and…lingered.

  He waved a hand at his face, and her eyes slowly (and rather reluctantly, he thought) tracked their way back up his body. “Do I meet with your approval?”

  She met his eyes briefly before her glance skittered away once more. In a southerly direction. “It hardly matters.”

  Oh, he rather thought it did. “This was your idea. Tell me, am I hideous?”

  The irritated look she gave him was not at all comforting.

  He strode over to the cheval mirror Coombes had managed to unearth from some forgotten corner of the castle and stared into it, his brow furrowing. He turned his head from side to side, studying his reflection. His blackened eye rather ruined any attempt at making him appear more gentlemanly. But without his scruff, he looked ten years younger. He wasn’t sure whether he liked that or not. He frowned and squashed his nose with the palm of his hand.

  “With this beak, I’ll never be a diamond of the first water.” He gave her a wry smi
le when he saw her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t notice, for she was too busy staring at his posterior. Only fair, he thought, for all the times he’d done the same thing to her. “Shall I, Mr. Fawkes?”

  “Your beak is quite…er, dashing.”

  That sounded very near to a compliment. The first one out of her mouth, despite her obvious attraction to him.

  “Dashing, you say?” He squashed his nose again and studied his profile.

  “Unique. You’ve a very unique face. A singular profile. Very…er, Caesarian.”

  He didn’t know if that was a compliment or not, but he’d allow it.

  He released his nose and turned to her. “I do believe you’re trying to soothe my ego, Fawkes. How thoughtful of you.”

  She glared at him. “You know very well you are handsome.”

  He watched, fascinated, as her cheeks went from pink to crimson as she realized what she’d said. Her glare deepened. “But for your hands…and every time you open your mouth, you look very much like a gentleman.”

  He was able to contain his amusement—but only barely. The little minx was determined not to be impressed by him, and it was more delightful than it had any right to be. Oh, he was treading in treacherous waters indeed, but he found himself unable to stop. He was having more fun than he’d had in years.

  Julian considered his rough workman’s hands, large-palmed and long-fingered, covered in nicks and callouses from years of hard use. She was right. They’d never be mistaken for a gentleman’s.

  “Never had a complaint from the ladies on account of my hands.” He closed the distance between them and stuck out his hand. He found himself rather anxious to touch hers again. The contact before had been much too brief. “Here—have a feel. What do you think of it?”

  She eyed the hand the same way she’d eyed Satan the other day in the stables and backed away. He followed until her back slammed against the door. “I hardly think that’s necessary,” she said faintly.