The Scoundrel's Secret Siren

by Daphne du Bois

  Pulling out her journal, previously such a treasured means of working out the tangles in her mind, she climbed out of the soft bed and moved over to the little escritoire, where she attempted to compose an entry. The journal had been sorely neglected of late, she saw guiltily – she had been so busy with the myriad activities that Lady Hurst had conjured for her and her sister’s entertainment that she had not had a moment to herself to write a single line.

  Thinking of her sister, Lorelei decided that she would have liked very much to have Constance’s steady presence nearby. Not given to gambols or adventures, Constance didn’t fly into high excitement over imagined horrors. It would have been comforting to discuss the plan, or just share her worries with another human being. Perhaps it was that they had had to grow close because they did not have a mother, but the sisters had always been in each other’s confidence. Constance was unlikely to ever find herself in Lorelei’s shoes: she did not sneak out in the middle of the night to hunt ghosts or witness duels – and that was how all this trouble had started, after all. Lorelei knew she ought perhaps to regret the entire escapade, but she simply could not bring herself to feel any remorse. If only she had listened to her sister’s sensible advice that night, she would still have her mother’s treasured ornament – and Lord Winbourne would not have given her any more attention than he did any other debutante in her first Season. Lorelei had been unable to keep from noticing that the handsome earl did not bother with green young ladies such as herself. He would never have even picked her out a crowd of pale muslin and curls.

  That ought to have been what Lorelei wanted, but it was not. Instead, it was a disheartening thought that left her feeling melancholy. She was loath to admit even to herself that she enjoyed their little exchanges – even his mocking gaze singled her out, made her different and special where she knew that, one ill-judged romp aside, she was not in the least bit remarkable. Certainly nothing like the witty beauties who flocked around the earl at every party.

  Having never been the sort of lady given to melancholy, Lorelei forcefully pushed her bleak musings aside, reminding herself that it was none of those beauties who would be following Winbourne to his engagement at dawn and watching out for him, even if he never found out about it. (And she certainly hoped he never would!)

  She sat over her journal a few moments longer, quill raised in preparation, but she found that the words to express what she felt would not come. It was as though her own feelings kept slipping just out of reach, scattering and flitting like little fish. She could not write about the enigmatic man at all, either the real earl, engaging yet arrogant, or the Lancelot she had conjured in her mind, brave and heroic. Impossible, whispered an unbidden voice in her head – startling her. Impossible? What could that mean? But it was late and she was too tired to analyse the workings of her tired mind.

  She wrote a few lines about Gilmont, instead: her kind hosts, the pretty gardens and the diverting conversations she had shared with Julia and the other guests. Still, apart from a brief mention of him as one of the guests staying at the house, she could not bring herself to dwell on the subject of Winbourne.

  Whatever undefined sentiment it was that hung between them like a storm cloud, it was certain to be unsuitable – something she would have to forget all about when she accepted an offer from an eminently suitable, if somewhat dull, gentleman of the sort Lady Hurst and her father were sure to approve of. Committing her feelings to paper, when she could not quite explain what her feelings even were, would be making them more real than she could bear.

  And she was certain that, even if she tried, she could not hope to come close to capturing it in ink – a poet perhaps might have had a chance, but she was, regrettably, no poet.

  It took her a long time to write a very few lines which, upon rereading, came out trite and stilted, and she could not be sure why she’d even written them at all. The candle, flickering restlessly, had burned down somewhat, at least. Lorelei threw down the quill in frustration and restlessly paced the soft thick carpet of the bedroom, formulating her plans.

  It was the most restless night she had ever passed. She could neither sleep nor sit still for very long. At last, perceiving it to be a little over an hour before dawn, she dressed in a dark gown of burnt umber and a back cloak, and slipped out of her room and into the garden. She had an idea of where the appointment was to take place from her exploratory walk with Julia, but she was not certain of her footing in the darkness.

  Luckily, Winbourne did not disappoint. He appeared unexpectedly, as usual; she had only enough time to move into a patch of shadow, where he was least likely to spot her. She recognised his form instantly, even in the gloom, and waited patiently while his footsteps crunched past her, hoping that he would not scent her light perfume or make her out in the shadows. With him was his valet, whom he sent away impatiently, before setting out on his own.

  For a terrible moment, the earl looked as if he might head for the stables and Lorelei feared that he might decide to ride – she could not hope to follow him if he did! But after a moment of deliberation, he turned away and strode towards the track leading from the house. The man moved with a brisk predatory grace that somehow still managed to convey his impatience and make her shiver.

  Lorelei gave him a bit of a lead, like Sir Philip Harclay often did when following someone into the night. She could not risk his noticing her – how could she explain such a thing? And he would surely send her back to the house.

  Her gown, she soon discovered, was not made for such adventures. Lorelei lifted her skirts a little so as not to trip and stepped as carefully as she could in her soft boots, as she followed the earl. Fortunately, the man made no effort to hide his own passage and it was most unlikely that he would hear her.

  The walk took about an hour and, by the time the earl turned off the winding road, Lorelei was properly winded. She was convinced that it was a miracle that she had avoided spraining her ankle or tripping on the uneven path. She was unaccustomed to walking such distances in the dark, and she was certainly not dressed for it! Sir Philip had every advantage as a hero, in that had never had to do such a walk in a gown.

  Not without her usual humour even in such a potentially disastrous fix, Lorelei marvelled that it seemed her destiny to spend time with Winbourne on night-time roads. Of course, he was not aware of her this time. At least, she did not believe that he was.

  A few times, when she had stepped on a pebble or stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle, she was certain she had made enough noise that he would hear her over his own steps. She had managed to keep from crying out, but he had still paused and looked behind him for a few tense moments before continuing on. Had he caught her, she would surely have had the devil to pay. If only they both somehow emerged from this in one piece...

  Now that there was no more walking and stumbling, it was very quiet and very dark. She had never feared the dark, though the empty silence of the countryside drove her to distraction. The silence was eerie, as though they were the only people left in the world. She was headed to witness a duel to the death. Lorelei did not know this road or these woods, and it had occurred to her that it would be utterly miserable to die in such an unremarkable, forsaken place.

  She would not allow the arrogant earl to come to such an end as that! She had to be brave and not allow herself to think hopeless things. She focused on making sure she made as little noise as possible and ignored the unsettling sporadic hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance. The bird had at least shattered the unpleasant silence.

  Lorelei carefully followed Winbourne into the trees, which was an ever more arduous task. Desperately trying not to lose sight of him, because she knew she would not be able to find him again, she hurried through the wood.

  The undergrowth and her soft boots muted her footsteps and she tried to step lightly enough to keep branches from snapping underfoot. Her dress kept catching on low shrubs and she had to pause and untangle herself. Winbourne must have been preoc
cupied with the upcoming engagement, however, as he did not seem to hear her pursuit even then. She was grateful for this small mercy and barely suppressed a sigh to find that they had reached the appointed glade.

  While dawn was still a while away, a murky sort of light had begun to filter though the dark trees. It cast a melancholy veil over everything, and she found that she absolutely hated it. The other gentleman, Finch, was already there. He had a friend with him, a slight fellow whom Lorelei supposed to be his second.

  Winbourne had come alone, of course - or so he thought! Lorelei silently cursed his arrogance in a fervent manner that was entirely not fitting for a lady of quality. Surely, even the great Lord Winbourne needed someone to watch his back! Most especially a man who had a habit of making appointments at dawn.

  She froze in a particularly shadowed patch of trees and watched breathlessly as the earl strolled carelessly through the clearing. His movements were carelessly fluid. He resembled nothing so much as a stalking panther, in his dark cloak.

  “Well, Finch. I see you are most eager to keep our engagement. I trust the morning finds you well?” the earl drawled by way of greeting. Winbourne’s tone was laced with boredom, as though he had just met a tiresome acquaintance while strolling through Hyde Park.

  “Perfectly so, Lord Winbourne. All the better for your timely arrival.” The young man tried for the same note of disdain, but the tremble of anger in his voice was very far from Winbourne’s unassailable iciness. “My second, Mr John Mitchell.”

  The earl bore the introduction with only a thin veneer of tolerance.

  Mr Mitchell nodded at the elegant earl. “How do you do, sir?”

  Lorelei could just picture Winbourne’s sensual lips curling into that familiar humourless smile. “I find I can’t complain. Nothing like a brisk morning stroll for the constitution, as I’m certain you’ll agree, Mr Mitchell. Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, shall we get on? I’m sure I tire of these pleasantries. Since I have not bothered any of my friends to second me tonight, I think we had better dispense with all the nonsense of formalities. Mr Mitchell ought to ask me for an apology, of course, but I shall refuse, for I have none to give, and Mr Finch shan’t agree to call quits to his own rashness. So I say again, we had best get on. What will it be, Finch? Swords? Or would you prefer pistols – so much more en vogue. ”

  From her hiding place in the greenery, Lorelei did not miss the expression of intense dislike on Finch’s face. She wished she had some way of stopping the whole mad endeavour! It was perfectly obvious that, having cast his glove onto the ground, Mr Finch was determined to continue with the challenge.

  “Swords,” the younger man declared. “I would not hurry the pleasure of bloodying your fine coat, Winbourne. A pint for every tear my young lady shed because of your deviance: the guineas you won off me so dishonourably are nothing compared to that!”

  Winbourne heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have told you before, I believe, that I have had no dealings whatsoever with your young lady. She’s quite deluded if she believes otherwise – but perhaps some other scoundrel gave my name. Nor did I cheat you with loaded dice – I have always held that if, in one’s boyish pride, one ventures more than one can afford to lose, it is very bad form to blame one’s fellow players.”

  Finch gave a sharp bark of laughter, and Lorelei could see his expression harden. He said coldly, “A likely story! You must take me for an imbecile! Some other scoundrel – you do not even attempt to hide your foul nature!”

  Lorelei could not look away. Winbourne’s dark chuckle was genuinely amused. “No sense in that, my dear fellow. My reputation is what it is, but you forget, Finch, that while I might be a scoundrel, I am also a dangerous one. I hope you have practised with your fencing master in view of this engagement.” He carelessly removed his cloak and coat. The earl cut a striking figure in his shirtsleeves and dark waistcoat.

  Lorelei felt paralysed with fear as Mr Finch’s second appeared to take the earl’s words to heart, completely failing to ask Winbourne if he would not apologise to his opponent and call off the engagement. Not that it would have done any good, she realised.

  Drawn steel rang through the still night.

  Chapter 7

  “I say!” exclaimed Mitchell, leaping out of the way as his eager friend drew his own sword.

  Winbourne followed suit, with an easy grace which suggested years of practice and an excellent rapport with his blade.

  They bowed, one with disdain, the other with obvious impatience.

  “En garde. Prêt. Allez!” called out Mitchell, from a safe distance, as though this were a bout at a fencing academy and not a senseless duel in the woods.

  As she watched the men circle, feeling the tension build like an impending summer storm, Lorelei decided that such things were only dashing in stories. The swords looked terribly ominous – much worse than a physical brawl might have been, however undignified. She did not care that a physical brawl was strictly prohibited among gentlemen – at least both could have come out of that alive.

  It took all of her courage not to look away. At last, Finch lunged. Lorelei had never seen a duel before, and she knew little about fencing, but even she could tell that the boy was a clumsy swordsman: and yet, his movements were quick and eager. Winbourne easily deflected the attack and Lorelei knew a moment of relief. She could not help but admire the easy strength and undeniable skill evident in his thrusts and parries. It was like a dance of the most deadly kind. The opponents’ eyes did not stray from each other as they moved and circled, advanced and retreated.

  There were a few moments when Lorelei barely stifled a gasp as Finch parried and riposted with such rapidity that she was sure even Winbourne would not be able to counter, until he did and she found herself able to breathe again. The ringing of steel carried across the clearing and Lorelei was sure she would never forget the horrible sound so long as she lived.

  She wondered how long the duel could go on for – surely they would tire of it soon enough, before anybody was hurt. Unconsciously, Lorelei leaned against a low-hanging branch at elbow height, riveted by the frightening battle being fought before her eyes.

  She wondered about the business with the dice and who the lady was, in whose honour the young Mr Finch was so determined to shed blood. She knew many young men fought in honour of their sweethearts or their sisters – if this was the sort of thing brothers did, Lorelei was suddenly glad she had only a sister. Whatever the outcome of the ill-conceived bout, she was certain that if the lady in question had any quality to her person at all, she would not be at all gratified by the violence.

  Lorelei’s father, a military man of great repute, had always scoffed at duels as the providence of silly boys and Corinthians, but seeing one in real life, the young woman found she could not dismiss them so blithely.

  A particularly loud ring of steel at another violent engagement between Winbourne and Finch made her start, but they shoved apart quickly. Mr Finch’s breathing was getting heavier and his hair decidedly untidy.

  “Steady on!” exclaimed Mitchell, whose presence she had completely forgotten. He appeared just as alarmed as she felt.

  “Yes, Finch, do endeavour to show a little more finesse, or I shall be forced to think that you learned your technique from street brawlers.” The earl should have been out of breath, and yet he still somehow managed to appear cool and vaguely bored, as though he were sitting though a tiresome poetry recital.

  Lorelei saw Finch’s face twist aggressively before the men circled again and suddenly the earl was facing her directly. This time, the younger’s man’s attack was so mercurial she could not hold in a gasp, and the branch she’d been leaning on cracked alarmingly.

  Nobody heard her but Winbourne, who happened to look up just as Finch was pressed into his attack. Their eyes met and she knew he had seen her. In the next instant, the earl gave a hiss as a scarlet stain spread across the starling white of his right sleeve.

  Finch took a mome
nt to gloat, which was a very foolish mistake indeed. The Earl of Winbourne gritted his teeth, and in one swift lunge punctured his opponent’s shoulder. Lorelei was immobile, blood pounding in her ears.

  Finch reeled back, dropping his sword. The cold tip of Winbourne’s blade was pressed into Mr Finch’s shirt over his heart. Time froze. Then, the earl said something dismissive about duels to the death before slowly lowering his sword arm as though it did not pain him in the least.

  For a moment, the three men in the glade stood as if made of stone, and then Winbourne spoke again. “I think you asked me if I have the nerve, Finch. You have clearly not been associating with the right circles, else you would know exactly how much nerve I have. However, I find I have no taste in killing schoolboys, even ones as odious as yourself. I suggest we end this game. Your friend Mr Mitchell had better make certain you see a physician before you bleed to death all over his curricle. As for your lady, I’d be careful before challenging any other gentleman for seducing a woman they have never set eyes on.”

  Finch swayed slightly on his feet, his face greying in complexion – he was obviously in a great deal of pain. Mr Mitchell rushed forward and steadied his friend. Still he glared at the earl with undisguised dislike.

  With a polite, if somewhat shaken, ‘good morning’, which the earl acknowledged with a nod, Mr Mitchell helped his friend walk unsteadily back through the trees to where he had left his curricle.

  There was something about Winbourne’s suddenly stark, drawn, features that pulled Lorelei to the wounded man – made her want to emerge from hiding and put her arms around him. It was completely irrational, not to mention inappropriate! She couldn’t quite understand him, couldn’t pin him down, and this unsettled her. The man frightened her and yet she still found him utterly compelling.