Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Her pulse raced beneath his fingers. His own kicked up in response, matching the rapid tattoo beat for beat. The light fragrance of violets she wore intensified as her skin warmed under his touch. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation of her pulse pounding against his mouth and the combined scents of violets and warm flesh.

  When he released her, his eyes strayed to the stark lines curving down the bosom of her pelisse. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the taut body it covered.

  When he caught her gaze, a flush of color swept up her cheeks. She broke away quickly from the intensity of his gaze to glance toward Lady Victoria.

  Despite the moment of tense awareness, her voice was composed—almost bored—when she said, “It was lovely to meet you again, Your Grace.”

  The cool tone reminded him that she wasn’t interested in forming an attachment to anyone, no matter what he imagined her pulse revealed.

  Well, she had a few disappointments heading her way. She was utterly mad if she thought a twenty-one year old female would be welcomed at an excavation in Egypt regardless of how many dead languages she could read.

  Bidding the ladies adieu, he stepped outside the Archer’s townhouse. He paused to adjust his hat, allowing his uncle to catch up with him.

  “The cat’s claws almost caught you that time, nevvy,” Archer said as they strode toward Gentleman Jackson’s.

  Suppressing a slight twinge of annoyance, Nathaniel smiled. “You have got a job ahead of you if you are going to keep that chit from running off to Egypt. Have you heard of this Mainwaring fellow she was discussing?” he asked abruptly.

  Archer shook his head. “No. Worth finding out about, though. She would be an attractive lamb to fleece.”

  “Precisely. I will put Cooke on it.”

  After a careless shrug, Archer gave him a sharp glance. “What did you think of her?”

  “She seems pleasant enough. A bit of a bluestocking, though.”

  “There are worse things than intelligence in a female. And she is rich.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “I’ve no need of money. Or a wife.”

  “All dukes need wives. It is your solemn duty.”

  “Eventually, yes. But not for several years.” He lightly punched the older man’s shoulder. “I want a few adventures before I am thrown into that tedious prison. God knows I have little enough freedom as it is since they have forced a duke’s yoke over my shoulders.”

  “Not to mention your troubles with the ladies. You are gaining quite a reputation as a woman-hater,” Archer commented blandly.

  “What trouble?” Nathaniel asked suspiciously.

  His gaze strayed down the walkway. A dowager and her offspring had spotted him and were crossing the street on a course set to intercept. He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Lady Beatrice was alighting from a carriage just a few yards away.

  Striding a little faster, Nathaniel kept his eyes set determinedly forward. Just three more blocks and they would arrive at Jackson’s gymnasium. No females allowed. A flitting motion on his left made him grit his teeth. Another lady—this one a lightskirt. Damn! He had imprudently made love to her when he was younger, untitled, and less careworn.

  She waved to him.

  “Slow down, young man,” Archer complained. “There is no need to run.”

  “I—” Someone grabbed his elbow. “Damn!” Nathaniel leapt and swung around, waving his walking stick like a club.

  “Whoa!” Peter Harnet laughed and raised his hands in mock defense. “You are as jumpy as a fox running before the hounds.”

  Nathaniel shrugged him off irritably and glanced down the street. Several pairs of female eyes locked onto him with iron determination. “Is it any wonder? What do you mean by sneaking up behind a person?” He strode forward more rapidly.

  “Tsk, tsk. Mind your temper, Your Grace,” his friend mocked him, running to keep up. “Mr. Archer, how are you?” Harnet gasped.

  Archer murmured a breathless greeting.

  “Temper? Me?” Nathaniel’s brows rose although he ruined the effect by sweeping his cuff across his damp forehead. He flicked a quick look around. The females were closing in on them. “Are you off to Jackson’s?”

  “Had not thought about it, but I have no other obligations.” Harnet trotted in step beside him. Nathaniel walked faster. “And yes, your temper has been abominable of late.”

  At a near run, Nathaniel took a deep breath and scowled. “You would be a bundle of nerves, too, if you could not take a simple walk down the street in peace.”

  “Your Grace!” a high voice called from just a few feet behind them.

  They were one block away from Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon.

  Harnet laughed. He shoved Nathaniel in the small of the back. “Quick! I will forestall them.” He turned, manfully taking up a position in the middle of the walkway.

  Wheezing, he called over his shoulder, “It is Lady Beatrice—run for it!”

  Nathaniel dashed into the street. A pair of horses pulling a large carriage pounded past, narrowly missing him.

  “Hey, ye dunderhead! Watch where you are going!” the irate coachman yelled.

  Nathaniel waved and continued. He made it to the door of Jackson’s temple to male aggression before any of the females behind him could get their claws into his back.

  He caught his breath, feeling safe until he nearly bumped into the Earl of Telford, Lady Anne’s father.

  The earl glared at Nathaniel. His eyes were rimmed with red and set deeply within bruised-looking hollows. “You!” he spat.

  Nathaniel glanced behind him, noting his uncle rapidly approaching. Anticipating an uncomfortable scene, Nathaniel placed a firm hand on Lord Telford’s shoulder and guided him inside. He steered him toward a rarely used chamber on the first floor.

  “I beg your pardon,” Nathaniel said. “Perhaps you would allow me to have a word with you?”

  “I have no desire to speak to you,” Telford replied.

  “You have my deepest sympathy—”

  Telford pulled a pair of black gloves from his pocket, but Nathaniel gripped his wrist. The earl’s gray face suffused with angry color. “Release me!”

  “I understand your desire to be revenged upon your daughter’s murderer, and I support that effort. I will do all I can to find the person responsible, you must believe me.”

  “Why should I? I’ve heard what they are saying. I demand justice for—” his voice broke. He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat before continuing hoarsely, “I will obtain justice for my Anne!”

  “Lady Anne deserves justice, but I had nothing to do with her death. You must listen to me—”

  “You—”

  Nathaniel held up a hand. “No. I was in the garden, that much is true, but I did not kill her. I swear to you upon my honor.”

  Lord Telford’s thin shoulders sagged as he took an uneven breath. He rubbed a heavily veined hand over his face. Exhaustion and despair hoarsened his voice. “You were there—”

  “Yes, but I didn’t see who ended her life. But I will get to the bottom of this affair, I swear it. I will find the monster and make him pay. Give me time—a few weeks at most. If I fail, or if you still believe I am responsible at the end of that period, then I will meet you at the time and place of your choosing. You will have your justice, one way or the other.”

  There was a flicker of movement by the door, and Nathaniel imperceptibly shook his head. His uncle stood there, listening and twisting his walking stick to release the rapier hidden inside. At Nathaniel’s signal, Archer relaxed against the doorframe, deftly blocking entry to any other curious passersby. He absently brushed a speck of dust off his deep blue superfine coat to convey the impression that nothing of interest was going on in the room and waited.

  Lord Telford pressed his fingers into his eyes wearily. A heartbeat later, he shoved the gloves back into his pocket. “I will keep you to your word, Your Grace. One month.”

  “Agreed,” Nathaniel
replied. “And if there is anything I can do—any assistance—”

  “No.” The older man waved Nathaniel’s words away like so many meaningless flies and turned toward the door. He pushed past Archer, trudging heavily out through the entryway. Telford moved with his head down, oblivious to the men around him, locked in his private world of anguish.

  “Difficult situation,” Archer commented as they entered the boxing saloon proper. “He has every right to bring the murderer to justice. If I were him, I would not wait for the law to take action. The man who pays for justice receives it.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. Under similar circumstance, he would not wait for the law, either. The thought sobered him. “He’s mistaken if he listened to Bolton’s gossip. I did not kill her, even if I was in the garden. I have to find who did.”

  If he couldn’t, he’d have to agree to Telford’s demand for a duel. And Nathaniel would have to delope and pray Telford’s aim was poor. What else could he do if he couldn’t find Lady Anne’s true murderer? He couldn’t kill Telford under any circumstances, it was inhumane.

  However, very few facts existed, and he wasn’t sure he could solve the matter despite his claims.

  Nathaniel moved into the changing area of the boxing saloon, feeling almost desperate. Lady Anne had been bludgeoned by a marble cherub in the middle of a garden. Dozens of men, women and couples swarmed about the place, all seeking illicit excitement. None were likely to volunteer any information about where they had been, or whom they had seen.

  He would have ferret out who had been present, which men had walked outside alone, and who might have had reason to want Lady Anne dead.

  The task seemed enormous. Ironically, however, it did give him something to worry about other than women compromising him. In an uncharacteristically cynical mood, he wrenched off his coat, wondering if he wouldn’t be better off if all the women of his acquaintance did think he were a foul murderer.

  Maybe they would leave him alone.

  Of course with his luck, they’d think it made him romantically dangerous.

  Thinking of luck made him rub his fingers over his useless watch chain. His lucky lapis was still missing. The last time he had it, he was running away from Lady Anne in the garden. If it fell off and was found in the grass….

  He had to visit Lord Thatcher. He had to see what, if anything, could be found in the garden during the day.

  Except he could hardly avoid Lady Beatrice if he did so. And her family would believe he was there for another reason, altogether. They had hinted as much before the soirée.

  Was there no way out?

  Stripping down to his small clothes, Nathaniel was surprised when his uncle joined him.

  “I thought you were heading to White’s?” he asked as he pulled his linen shirt off over his head.

  Archer cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I changed my mind. You appear to be in need of a mature man’s advice.”

  “Advice?”

  “Indeed. I had not realized you were in such desperate straits.”

  “I am not desperate and I am trying to keep it that way.”

  “Not very successfully, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Nathaniel turned on him, muscles tense. “Well, what would you have me do? I promised Telford I would investigate—that damn Bolton has been spreading rumors that I was seen fleeing after the murder. If I cannot uncover the truth, it is within Telford’s rights to demand satisfaction from me.” He sucked in air angrily as he remembered his ignominious retreat to Jackson’s Boxing Salon. “And those blasted women! I cannot get away from them long enough to breathe. The damn creatures are everywhere! Two mornings ago, Mrs. Lincoln showed up on my doorstep with veiled hints that our previous liaison was worth at least a diamond bracelet considering my recent elevation in social importance. What would you have me do?”

  “I certainly would not give that jade a bracelet.” Archer fidgeted a moment, rubbing his knuckles against his chin. “You did not, did you?”

  “No I did not! What do you take me for?”

  Archer shook his head and stripped off his own shirt, revealing arms and a chest hard with whipcord muscles. For a man nearing fifty, Archer was remarkably fit.

  Shrugging out of his jacket, Nathaniel thought with satisfaction that at least his nerves had not turned him into a twitching bag of bones. Not yet, at any rate. He flexed his arm, satisfied with the muscles thickening his biceps and shoulders. His coats didn’t require padding—yet—and he slapped his flat stomach. He didn’t need a corset, either.

  He sighed. Maybe he should go to seed like Timothy Hughes. Hughes had gained several stone since Cambridge and now resembled a particularly well-rounded stack of hay with legs. Somehow Nathaniel suspected, however, that a few extra pounds around his waistline wouldn’t make any difference to the women who pursued him. They were after a title and any additional weight would only make him slower and more apt to be caught.

  And eating certainly wouldn’t help him clear his name of Lady Anne’s murder.

  Archer laughed suddenly and strapped on a pair of boxing gloves. “You are forgetting the benefits of an engagement.”

  “An engagement? Have you gone mad? That is the last thing I need right now! Have you not heard a word I have said? Besides, I am unlikely to live long enough to be wed if Lord Telford cannot determine who killed his daughter. If I could just be left alone long enough to concentrate, I could solve this damnable mystery. I was there for God’s sake.”

  “Precisely. And who said anything about marriage?”

  Archer replied, making a feint for Nathaniel’s stomach.

  Nathaniel blocked him easily and picked up a pair of gloves, jamming them over his knuckles. “You did. Did you not just say I should get engaged?”

  “Yes. But not married. Just engaged. It will relieve the pressure so you will be free to investigate Lady Anne’s death.”

  “What? And get sued for breach of promise when I am done? I would rather have Lord Telford shoot me outright.”

  “Not necessarily. What if the bride-to-be was ready to leave London, let us say, three years hence? She would have no reason to actually go through with it.”

  Archer was suggesting Nathaniel offer for his ward. Nathaniel knew it, and Archer knew he knew it.

  “You are a raving lunatic,” Nathaniel said, striding into the gym. “I am not going to compound my problems by even considering such a course of action.”

  Jackson was already in the ring with another Corinthian, so Archer and Nathaniel strode to one of the bags of sand hanging from a rafter. Archer offered to hold it. Nathaniel agreed and expended a small portion of his tension by hitting the bag until the sand started dribbling out the bottom.

  “You have three difficulties,” Archer said with an air of bland indifference to Nathaniel’s undiminished irritation. “Let me itemize them for you. We will see if you still perceive me to be a lunatic when I am done. One: Lord Telford is convinced you murdered his daughter, and you have but four weeks to collect proof of your innocence. Two: Bolton has been busy convincing everyone—including those irresponsible rascals at the newspapers—that you killed Lady Anne because you hate women. Three: You cannot perform any investigations because you are constantly hounded by women seeking to capture your attention. You cannot even go to Lady Beatrice’s garden without a certain awkwardness unless you are engaged to another. Does that clarify your situation?”

  “Masterfully.”

  “I am relieved you agree. Now I suggest again: get engaged.”

  “That resolves nothing!”

  “You are wrong. I agree it does not resolve your issue with Lord Telford, but it will resolve item three. Women would cease pestering you. You would be free to concentrate on resolving Lady Anne’s unfortunate death. You can visit the crime scene with impunity. And, it may in some fashion assist you with item two. It would eliminate Bolton’s argument that you are an avowed woman-hater.”

  “There are m
en who are worse misogynists than I am and who are married, nonetheless. Who, in fact, became misogynists after they got married. So how will this disprove Bolton’s theory about my motivations?”

  “Trust me. If you are seen billing and cooing with Miss Haywood, everyone will be convinced you could not be a woman-hater. It would also explain your presence in the gardens last night—you were searching her out, were you not? You spent at least some time in her company.”

  The thought of Miss Haywood’s face gilded by moonlight made his resolve waver. Then, he remembered that even an engagement might not be enough to stop some women.

  And there was Miss Haywood, herself.

  “And what if she decides she would like to marry a duke?” Nathaniel jabbed at the bag viciously, thinking about the gall of the jade who had just “stopped for a visit” at his townhouse to “discuss what was due her.”

  “You heard Miss Haywood this morning. You observed her. Do you think it is likely she will change her mind?” Archer asked.

  Nathaniel remembered her blazing eyes when she spoke of Egypt and the fierce determination in her voice.

  He hit the bag with extra force, nearly toppling Archer. “She is a woman,” he stated flatly. “Untrustworthy.”

  Archer shook his head. “A woman, but an unusual one. Intelligent.” He gave Nathaniel a considering glance.

  “Uncommonly and I might say—inconveniently—honest. I would trust her word.”

  “How do you know? She has only been with you—what? A day? Two?”

  “Enough time for an astute judge of character to come to an opinion.”

  “Really.” They changed places.

  Archer began punching the bag, dancing lightly back and forth and landing a rain of light blows that made Nathaniel stumble back. He realized abruptly that while Archer was many years older and much smaller, his quick blows would have felled a man if he’d actually been in the ring. Archer was light, but quick. Deadly.

  Finally stopping, Archer bent over to catch his breath, his gloved hands pressing against his thighs. “Get her to agree and you can trust her. Then you will be free to investigate.”