by Donna Hatch
Mr. de Champs’s wide smile flashed as he nodded at them in greeting. When Mr. de Champs met Alicia’s eyes, his guileless smile broadened. After he introduced them to the lovely redhead on his arm, they chatted for a moment before parting.
“Miss Palmer!”
Oh, no. That nasally whine could only belong to Colonel Westin. She halted and turned, wishing she could ignore manners for a change.
Colonel Westin frowned at her. “You never took a turn about the garden at the ball with me. Then I called upon you yesterday and was told you were not at home.” He glowered in disapproval. “If I agree to marry you, I will expect you to report to me your whereabouts at all times.”
Stunned at such an outrageous statement, Alicia took a step back. Horrible, hateful man. She would rather marry a disfigured cripple than him. She made a mental note to tell Uncle to send their regrets for the tea tomorrow. She paused. She couldn’t. Regardless of her feelings for the man, he remained her best prospect for saving her family from prison.
Lord Amesbury broke in smoothly. “It is my understanding that you and Miss Palmer are not wed, nor are you even affianced. Therefore it is not her duty to report to you at all, sir. Come, ladies, our picnic awaits.”
Alicia found herself drawn into Lord Amesbury’s eyes. He had come to her rescue, instantly and incisively protecting her, and putting Colonel Westin in his place. She could not deny that his action had been nothing short of gallant. As he looked down at her, a lazy smile appeared on one side of his mouth.
She severed their eye contact. She would rather be indebted to anyone but Armand’s slayer. And now, she might have lost her family’s one hope of rescue.
“The nerve of that man!” Mrs. Hancock cried. “You can be sure I’ll never put Colonel Westin on any of my guest lists.”
“That was most chivalrous of you to come to her defense, Lord Amesbury,” Elizabeth said.
“Quite right, sir. Glad you cut him. I shall cut him dead the next time that odious man has the nerve to address one of us,” sniffed Mrs. Hancock.
Elizabeth turned to Alicia. “Surely he wasn’t a prospect.”
Alicia shot a warning look at her friend and risked a glance at the viscount. He wore an impassive expression, but his jaw had hardened. She did not wish to discuss her situation within hearing of anyone else. Least of all, Lord Amesbury.
She realized her hand clenched his arm, and she purposely relaxed her fingers. “He has not yet made a formal offer,” she replied quietly, hoping her friend would drop the subject.
Lord Amesbury placed his free hand over hers. She was appalled at how comforting the gesture felt. “Shall we take a turn about the grounds first, or shall we fall upon the picnic?”
In surprise, she glanced at him. “You really do have a picnic?”
A rakish grin lit up his handsome face. “A gentleman is always prepared in the hopes that he might be graced with the presence of desirable company.”
Elizabeth looked at him adoringly. “How lovely. And how considerate of you to invite us to join you. I have never been to a race and I confess I did not know what to expect.” She looked searchingly at Alicia, confused at her reluctance.
Alicia did not enlighten her.
The viscount had indeed come prepared. His tiger, a rosy-cheeked lad who appeared not to have quite grown into his new legs, turned away from the matched team he tended and helped the viscount retrieve blankets and enough food to feed several grown men. Lord Amesbury grinned and ruffled the tiger’s hair. The boy beamed before he returned to lead away the horses.
Lord Amesbury leaned upon one elbow on the blanket with his legs stretched out, and regaled them with wild tales from the sea. Alicia suspected they were two parts fabrication and one part truth, but his rich voice wrapped around them and held them spell-bound. His eyes sparkled mischievously, as if he mocked himself each time he mocked the manners and mores of English culture and compared life in England to life at sea. She could not resist his infectious laughter.
When the conversation reached a lull, Mrs. Hancock primly wiped her mouth with a napkin. “How are your aunt and uncle?”
“Very well. My aunt is busily organizing some sort of charity. Uncle Andrew had planned on attending the race, but his leg sometimes bothers him due to an old injury. I’m grateful to you all for not letting my picnic go to waste. Cook would have been most put out if it had returned uneaten.”
“Your uncle’s cook is legendary,” Mrs. Hancock agreed.
The viscount’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed. I tease my aunt that the only reason I visit her is so that I might partake of Cook’s remarkable meals.”
Alicia smiled in spite of herself.
Elizabeth giggled. “That’s wicked of you.” Then she looked alarmed as if she had just realized what she had said. “Ah, I mean, my lord...”
The viscount waved away her concern. “Quite right. I am wicked and not ashamed of it, Miss Hancock. My aunt makes a habit of reminding me of that flaw continuously.”
“Your aunt is a bit outspoken, but I have never known a kinder woman than Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Mrs. Hancock interjected.
His face softened. “That she is.”
A cry went up and Alicia craned her neck, trying to find the source.
“The race is about to begin.” Excitement colored the viscount’s voice and lit up his eyes. They stood and made their way to the racecourse. Lord Amesbury eyed the racers lining up. “If I were to bet, I would choose the chestnut.”
“Would you? Why?” Alicia asked, interested in spite of herself. “The Arabian is the chosen favorite, I hear.”
“The Arabian will be a good contender. They typically have great endurance, so they’re ideal for a long race, but this isn’t a long race.”
Elizabeth peered at the horses. “Which one is the Arabian?”
“The black coming on. He’s a beauty. But the chestnut has powerful hind quarters so he’s probably a good jumper. And this race is shorter, which will be the advantage for a sprinter as he appears to be. The bay, however, is taller and would have a longer stride. Of course, appearances are not everything. The one with the heart of a winner will cross the finish line first.”
Alicia turned to him. “You don’t consider the others contenders?”
The viscount scanned the horses, his blue eyes thoughtful. “No, I wouldn’t say so, but I haven’t seen any of them run, so it’s difficult to determine.”
A signal began the race. Though Alicia had never before taken an interest in horse-racing, her pulse quickened as the horses and riders vied for the lead. The chestnut horse pulled out in front, but soon the Arabian caught up to him as they passed the spot where Alicia stood. The racers ran past a second time in the same positions, but by the third lap, the Arabian had passed the other racers. With only one more lap to go, a gray from behind the group darted in front, taking the lead by a nose as they crossed the finish line.
Lord Amesbury wore a self-depreciating smile.
“And you did not even see that one as a contender,” Elizabeth mused, clearly surprised.
Alicia looked back at the gray stallion slowing to a trot under a rainfall of flowers. “The one with the heart of the winner.”
“Indeed. Appearances truly are often deceiving,” Lord Amesbury mused.
Smiling, Alicia rode home that afternoon with Elizabeth and Mrs. Hancock, grateful for a few hours to forget about her impending marriage to the unknown man of her uncle’s choosing. She’d enjoyed herself despite Lord Amesbury’s presence. Or perhaps because of it.
However, notwithstanding his winning smile or charming conversation, a picnic and a pleasant afternoon certainly did not buy forgiveness for her brother’s death.
Chapter 7
In the de Champs’s dining room, Cole stared at young Mr. de Champs, shocked at his bold statement, and half arose from his seat before he realized he’d moved. “You what?”
Young de Champs drew a breath as if gathering his courage. “I said I believ
e I shall offer for Alicia Palmer.”
The senior Mr. de Champs, a thin, elegant gentleman, removed the cigar from his mouth.
Before he could speak, the younger man held up his hand. “I am aware that she has only a small piece of land for a dowry, and that her uncle is counting on her husband to pay his debts, but she has won my affection. She comes from a good family; her parents were exemplary. I also understand that potential husbands are already in negotiation. If we had more time, I would court her first, but we do not have that luxury. I have no doubt that my esteem for her will only grow after we marry.”
Having delivered his announcement, young Mr. de Champs, wearing a determined expression, resumed his seat.
Overall, de Champs seemed a good man. Not good enough for Alicia Palmer, but certainly more fitting than any of her other prospects Cole had met. At least this man’s affection seemed genuine.
“I shall call upon her and ask her feelings upon the matter before I speak with her uncle,” the younger man continued, his voice growing steadily more confident.
The de Champs family, close friends of Uncle Andrew and Aunt Livy, had invited the Fitzpatricks and Cole for dinner, after which the men remained at the table for their habitual male-only companionship. The women had already left for the drawing room to discuss what they would. Cole suspected that their topics often included the men, and not in flattering tones. Rightly so, perhaps.
The senior Mr. de Champs said, “Do you know what kind of debt her uncle has amassed?”
The younger man faltered. “I understand it’s a great deal.”
When Mr. de Champs named the sum, considerable coughing followed.
The would-be suitor looked crestfallen. “I don’t know how I can part with that amount and still be able to offer her a comfortable life.”
“Nor do I wish you to spend it more or less buying a wife, however desirable,” added his father.
Uncle Andrew frowned slightly. “Both Colonel Westin and Mr. Braxton have shown interest. What’s odd is that Mr. Braxton suddenly closed up his house and left England. Said something about wanting to see Africa for an extended holiday.”
Cole almost laughed out loud. Apparently, their little tête á tête had been a greater success than he’d hoped. The elder Mr. de Champs put his cigar back in his mouth and drew a long drag before speaking again. “She’s not even what I’d call beautiful. Pretty, perhaps, but not uncommonly so.”
“Oh, but she is, Father,” young de Champs protested. “If only you would speak with her. She has the prettiest eyes. And she’s the most sincere and truly kind lady I’ve ever known.”
Cole had to agree, but he refrained from commenting. He watched young de Champs narrowly, seeing flaws he had not noticed before, with a growing sense of dislike. Young, flighty, impulsive. Rather foppish. Bordering on effeminate.
Foolish. He should not think of de Champs as a competitor. What did he care? He did not wish to marry in the immediate future. And he certainly had no designs on Miss Palmer.
But with the exception of the very young and naïve Mr. de Champs, the other men interested in marrying her gave Cole the shivers. He had no wish to see such an innocent creature wed to the likes of Colonel Westin, the devil who publicly dressed her down at the races as if she were an errant child. Alicia Palmer’s fate with the colonel would be no better than with that brute Mr. Braxton who’d assaulted her at the ball. Under the colonel’s thumb, she would either shrivel up and die, or become embittered like his sister Margaret with her disastrous marriage.
“Few could compete with Colonel Westin’s fortune,” Uncle Andrew said.
“Do you know the man?” Cole asked.
“Recluse,” Uncle Andrew said. “Has buried two wives already. Stingy curmudgeon. I’m surprised he’s willing to part with his money at all. Employs far too few servants because he’s too miserly to hire more. Has had to close off both wings and live in the main house. He seems harmless, but I’ve seen him fly into a rage I found truly terrifying.” Uncle Andrew virtually shuddered. “I wouldn’t marry my niece to him.”
Young de Champs looked crestfallen. “I wish I could save her from such a fate.”
Cole did too. He stilled. No. Stupid idea. He did not have the desire to marry. Not yet. Not even out of pity. Especially not out of pity.
He had the means, though. It could be done. And he did admire the girl. She had revealed herself a delightful, witty young lady with a smile that rivaled the sun after a storm. He’d grown aware of her in a keenly male way and had caught himself plotting when he could arrange their next meeting. Marrying a lady such as her did not seem an unpleasant prospect.
He almost cursed out loud.
Absolutely not. Sympathy, or its equally stupid brother, Chivalry, both presented ridiculous notions that should not be followed. Ever. Especially when they involved a permanent arrangement such as marriage.
Besides, she clearly hated him for dueling her brother. Her twin brother, no less.
Cole remained silent while the senior Mr. de Champs stripped his son of any hope that he might marry Alicia Palmer. All the while, Cole swallowed the urge to rise to her defense and declare the many fine qualities which made her a desirable wife, well worth the exorbitant fee her uncle required. For someone else. Not himself, of course.
He hardly noticed when they joined the ladies, and promptly lost every hand at whist he played. When they finally said good night, Cole stared unseeing out the dark windows of the coach.
“Cole.”
He blinked and then realized that Aunt Livy had been addressing him. “What, Aunt?”
“Miss Hermione de Champs. How did you find her?”
He thought back. Oh yes, the girl who didn’t speak a word and blushed the entire evening. “Painfully shy.”
“Yes, poor dear, but pretty, is she not?”
Cole pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off a looming headache brought on by an over-use of his patience. “Is that why we were invited to dinner, so you and Mrs. de Champs could determine our suitability?”
Aunt Livy waved her hand impatiently. “Of course, dear.”
Cole lowered his hand. “Perhaps I should find Jared and return to the sea.”
“Don’t you dare run away and play pirate again with your brother. I haven’t forgiven you for the last time. It’s taken you too long to remember your genteel upbringing.”
Cole turned a baleful frown upon her. “The time I served as an officer in the Royal Navy was far bloodier than the year I sailed with Jared.”
“We were at war. Your service in the Navy was honorable. Piracy is disgraceful, and if it were ever common knowledge, you’d both—” She stopped herself from pronouncing a fate he knew all too well. “I wish your brother would just come home.”
He barked a sharp laugh. “Not likely. That would thrust him back into ‘polite’ society where determining one’s foes becomes more difficult, and the battles more vicious.”
“You are the firstborn son of an earl and have a duty to marry to further the line.”
“A fact I’m not likely to forget with your constant reminders.”
Uncle Andrew chuckled. “You may have better luck finding Grant a wife, my love.”
Aunt Livy snorted. “That might take the rest of my days.”
Cole choked at the thought of his brother Grant marrying. “What daft female would take him? He’s the most cynical, hardened man I’ve ever known. Hence his disreputable pastime.”
“Bow Street Runners are doing much for the safety of London,” Uncle Andrew protested.
Cole nodded. “Because they’re as ruthless as the criminals they fight.”
Aunt Livy fanned herself. “Certainly not a fitting occupation for the son of an earl.”
Uncle Andrew would not be deterred. “Well, no, however, he’s not actually a Runner; he only assists them when they have a particularly interesting case. And the Runners are honorable men dedicated to protecting the pub
lic. I can understand why Grant likes them.”
“I suppose there’s a shred of honor in Grant’s black heart,” Cole conceded. “In his own twisted way, he’s trying to contribute. However, I still think he should have been a Magistrate if he wanted to uphold the law.”
“Every family needs a black sheep, I suppose. Unfortunately, yours has two. A thief-taker and a pirate, not to mention an heir resistant to do his duty.” Aunt Livy made a tsking sound. “Why is it that Christian is the only member of the family willing to do as he ought?”
“The ‘perfectly perfect Christian,’” Cole said in the same sing-song voice with which they’d taunted the youngest Amesbury brother all his life.
Aunt Livy waggled her closed fan at Cole. “Don’t think you can get away with changing the subject, you naughty boy.”
“Not I. Uncle Andrew brought up the subject of Grant.” How did Aunt Livy always manage to make him feel like a six-year old?
Uncle Andrew smirked. “Perhaps I should go buy Miss Palmer for you, Cole. You could get the whole marrying business over with, produce an heir, and then set her up in the country where you can ignore her if you wish. It would save her from all those other unsavory characters. And better yet, it would silence your aunt; I’ve been trying for thirty-seven years and am starting to believe it cannot be done.”
Aunt Livy whacked his arm smartly with her fan.
“I don’t need your money, Uncle. I certainly have the means to pay off her family myself, if I were so inclined.”
They both watched him too carefully. Cole quickly arranged an uninterested expression on his face and brushed an imaginary spec off his sleeve.
“Ahhh.” Uncle Andrew exchanged meaningful looks with Aunt Livy, whose triumphant smile grew in direct proportion to Cole’s attempt at appearing bored.
“It’s not what you think.” Clearly nothing he could say now would dissuade them from believing what they wished. “Stay out of this,” he snapped.