Captain Rakehell

by Lynn Michaels

  So that’s how it is, Lesley thought sourly, turning on a carpeted step to plant a firm index finger in Teddy’s neckcloth.

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll take yourself back to school and let me deal with Mr. Gerald Fisk.”

  “But, Lesley, this is all my fault!”

  “Indeed it is, but having yourself carted off to gaol for demanding a Bow Street Runner name his seconds will do nothing to absolve you. It would only—although it seems impossible just at the moment—make things worse.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Teddy granted slowly, a thoughtful frown puckering his brow.

  “And wipe that look off your face. I’ve had a belly full of schemes and plots, thank you.”

  With Teddy on his heels, Lesley climbed the rest of the stairs and traversed the upstairs corridor.

  “Packston!” he called, turning through the doorway into his bedchamber, where his harried-looking valet was woefully regarding the garments laid out on the counterpane. “Good man.” Lesley smiled expansively. “I see you’ve done with the shopping.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Suppressing a shudder, Packston looked away from the horrid wardrobe laid upon the four poster. “Your tailor will arrive shortly to make the necessary fittings.”

  “Excellent.” Lesley picked up the quizzing glass that had been at the top of the list he’d given Packston that morning and gazed archly through it at Teddy. “Do you think this will make Amanda Gilbertson swoon?”

  “Dead away,” Teddy assured him, gazing slack-jawed at the wildly patterned waistcoats strewn upon the bed.

  “And this, sprig.” Lesley snatched one up and held it to his chest. “Will I look the handsomest, bravest cove that ever lived in this?”

  “No!” he cried, appalled. “You’ll look the veriest fop! Or worse you’ll look—” Speech failed him then, but comprehension dawned. “Oh, Lesley. You are clever,” he said admiringly as he began to laugh.

  Teddy laughed, in fact, all the long way back to his school in the Midlands.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Hampton was a happy man. With the morning papers spread on his knee, seated in his favorite chair by the fire in his study, he sipped his after-luncheon coffee and smiled.

  Amanda had come sweet and sunny to the breakfast table, all traces of the tears and sulks of the day before vanished with the dew. Cheerfully she had gone with her mother to pay morning calls, an obligation she loathed and found odiously boring, and upon her return, had smiled at the receipt of Lord Earnshaw’s note inviting her to drive with him this afternoon.

  Presently, she was closeted with Lady Hampton and her abigail, selecting the perfect gown to wear, dressing her hair—for Lord Earnshaw would arrive within the half hour—and behaving as a proper female should.

  Disaster with the Blumfield creature had been averted. Just how, Lord Hampton had been unable to ascertain from his wife, who’d been quite overwrought (understandably) during the interview, and afterward quite vague (characteristically) about the details.

  But a thoughtful note from Eugenia Earnshaw (who knew Cornelia as well as he) had divulged the particulars: so long as she omitted the fact he’d kissed Amanda, the old dragon could gossip freely about the gentleman in the black mask; in exchange, the duchess swore to tell no one the baroness had been caught eavesdropping at the saloon door.

  Skillful as Her Grace’s handling of the crisis was, it would have been totally unnecessary if only she and Cornelia had consulted him in the first place. Lord Hampton would have advised them not to breathe a word about young Earnshaw to Amanda, simply to introduce them and leave the rest to Fate; or perhaps to Nature.

  They were birds of a feather, his daughter and Eugenia’s in-between son, both headstrong and without caution. He agreed with his wife and Her Grace that they were eminently suited to one another, but he wouldn’t have said so.

  Nor would he have voiced his wish to see the Earnshaw and Gilbertson families united by marriage. And the absolute last thing on earth he would have done was declare to Amanda and Earnshaw—as Cornelia had told him the duchess had done in a letter sent to him in Brussels shortly after news of his wounding at Waterloo had arrived—that the two of them had been elected by their parents to consummate (so to speak) such a union.

  Despite their initial mishandling of the affair, the two ladies had, as cats always do, landed on their feet. Though a bit chagrined that they’d pulled it off, Lord Hampton was, more than anything else, relieved that it was all water under the bridge and that peace had been restored to his household.

  Sighing contentedly, he raised his cup to take another sip. But as the rim touched his lips, a bloodcurdling shriek from upstairs caused him to fling it from his hand. The steaming coffee which splashed down his shirtfront did as much as the scream to propel him from his chair and up the steps, scattering sheets of newsprint in his wake.

  “Bennett!” Lady Hampton wailed from Amanda’s bedchamber. “Bennett!”

  She cried out for him a third time as he came through the door, his heart pounding with exertion and his neckcloth dripping, to find his wife and the abigail Marie standing over Amanda, who was still in her wrapper and seated at her dressing table. Blackened bits of something were sprinkled among the crystal vials and jars, and Amanda’s eyes glittered defiantly at him in the cheval glass.

  “Oh, Bennett!” The countess wailed, her body beginning to sway and her eyelids to flutter at the sight of him.

  “Cornelia, don’t even think to swoon!” Lord Hampton threatened, leaping too late across the room to prevent her collapsing in a billow of skirts at the foot of Amanda’s bed. He looked helplessly at her prostrate form for a moment, then wheeled on his daughter. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Raising her chin and folding her arms, Amanda compressed her lips into a hard, stubborn line and refused to answer.

  “Marie?” Lord Hampton queried of the plump, apple-cheeked abigail. “What do you know of this?”

  “Best see f’yourself, m’lord,” she replied grimly, and took a firm hold on her spirited little mistress.

  But other than to grimace and close her eyes, Amanda struggled not at all as Marie peeled back her upper lip to reveal blackened gaps in her perfect white teeth.

  “What is that?” Lord Hampton cried.

  “Harcargh,” Amanda said.

  “Marie, if you please.”

  The maid took her hand away. “Sorry, m’lord.”

  ‘‘Again?’’

  “Charcoal,” Amanda repeated.

  “And the purpose?” Lord Hampton demanded, striving to keep his temper in check.

  “To make myself look the veriest hag!” she declared, turning on her bench to glare at him proudly.

  “Scrub it off this instant, and finish dressing to receive Lord Earnshaw! Marie, don’t leave her alone for so much as one second!” He leveled his index finger at Amanda, then bent to collect his wife. “Once I’ve seen to your mother, I’ll send a footman to clean out the grate!”

  Puffing a bit, he turned away with Lady Hampton dangling from his arms, and Marie scooting ahead of him to hold the door open. She closed it behind him and frowned disapprovingly over her shoulder.

  “Told you it wouldn’t work,” she said.

  “Drat! And it was ever so hard to make it stick!” Turning again on the bench, Amanda bared her teeth to admire her handiwork in the glass, then made a face. “But it tastes vile.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Marie replied without sympathy. “Best scrape it off and rinse your mouth.”

  “Poor Mama.” Amanda sighed and got up from her table. “I’m a trial to her, I know, although I vow I don’t mean to be.”

  “That you are,” Marie agreed, then shook her head and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “It’s a wonder her ladyship don’t hurt herself hittin’ the floor ten times a day.”

  “Not to worry,” Amanda laughed. “Mama swoons so often, I’m sure she knows precisely how to fall and not hurt herse
lf.”

  Though why she’d want to, Amanda couldn’t fathom, other than to own it sometimes was, as it had proven to be in the Duchess of Braxton’s garden, a most effective method of escape. Hmmm, she thought, as she moved toward the washbasin, perhaps swooning was an art she’d have to perfect. What, she wondered with a grin, would happen if she fainted dead away at the sight of Lesley Earnshaw?

  At that moment, Lord Hampton, having entrusted his wife to her abigail and hastily repaired his toilette, was standing speechless in the parlor, facing Captain Lord Earnshaw and wondering the very same thing.

  “My dear Lord Hampton,” Earnsaw said, offering his beringed hand at an angle that made the earl wonder if he meant it to be clasped or kissed. “How very nice to see you after such a long time.”

  “So good of you to call upon Amanda,” Lord Hampton replied numbly, making quick work of the handshake. “May I offer you a brandy while you wait?”

  “A sherry or ratafia, perhaps,” replied Lesley with a sniff. “I find that stronger spirits so early in the day invariably leave me with the headache.”

  Lord Hampton felt his temples begin to thud. “But of course. If you please.” He indicated a chair with a distracted wave, and all but fled to the drinks tray set on a cherry sideboard.

  His hands shook as he uncapped a decanter of ratafia and filled a crystal goblet. He poured himself a brandy, eyed it a moment, then downed it, poured another, and drew a deep breath before lifting the glasses and turning to face his guest. But the smile he forced crumbled at the sight of Lord Earnshaw brushing a handkerchief deeply edged with lace over a cut velvet chair with an excessively fastidious flick of his wrist.

  “Your pardon, my lord. A soldier’s habit.” Lesley bowed to hide the grin spreading across his face at the earl’s stricken expression. “Battlefields aren’t the tidiest of places. One must always look before one sits.”

  “Oh, but—of course!” Lord Hampton fairly gushed.

  After the hardships and deprivations of war the lad was doing things up just a bit too brown, that was all, which explained his shirt points, the froth in his cravat, and the multitude of fobs dangling from his vividly patterned waistcoat. Reassured, he came forward with the drinks, as Lesley, grimacing and leaning heavily upon his cane, sat down.

  “Ahh, much better.” He again employed the lace handkerchief to mop his brow. “I’m fine once I’m up or down, but the in between plagues me still.”

  “How bothersome,” Lord Hampton sympathized, and handed him the goblet of ratafia.

  “It will pass with time, the surgeons say.” Lesley set his drink on a small table and shrugged, waiting until the earl had taken the chair next to his and had raised his snifter before adding, “They further assure me the injury will have no effect on my ability to produce an heir.”

  The remark caught Lord Hampton in the act of swallowing. His eyes bulged, as did the tendons in his neck, but he managed to fight the brandy down before the coughing and spluttering overtook him. Solicitously, Lesley sprang to his feet to thump him on the back, forgetting to use his cane and thanking God Lord Hampton was too deeply in the throes of choking half to death to notice.

  “Down the wrong pipe, eh, my lord?”

  With a twinge of guilt, Lesley noted the poor man could only gasp and nod, his eyes streaming tears, and his face turning an alarming shade of purple.

  “Just breathe deeply, my lord, and the spasm will pass.”

  It did so at last, and when Lord Hampton could draw a steady breath, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, giving Lesley the moment he needed to nip into his chair.

  “I beg pardon for my blunt speech,” he said, once Lord Hampton opened his watery eyes. “I thought merely to relieve any concerns you might have before Amanda joins us.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Lord Hampton replied weakly, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, and wondering if he’d acted too hastily in sending the notice of his daughter’s betrothal to The Times.

  Chapter Eight

  Standing dumbstruck with disbelief and as yet unseen in the parlor doorway, Amanda wished she, too, could weep. Surely the ridiculous fop seated with her father couldn’t be Lesley Earnshaw, for he bore no more resemblance to the rough and tumble boy she remembered than she did to the Baroness Blumfield.

  His blue superfine coat and buff pantaloons served well enough, but the pattern of his ruby waistcoat was better suited to a drapery, and she was certain if he turned his head too suddenly his incredible shirt points would lop off an ear. His cravat foamed with more lace than her petticoats, his dark hair with more curls than her own, and the gold tassels on his Hessians would look far better on the end of a bellpull.

  “Ah, there you are, Amanda.” Lord Hampton took note of her in the doorway and rose from his chair. “Come here, pet.”

  Yes, she’d swoon, and she wouldn’t have to pretend, Amanda decided, coming slowly forward at her father’s summons. Lord Earnshaw also came to his feet, levering himself up with an ebony walking stick while raising—oh, heaven help her!—a quizzing glass!

  Which masked, Lesley fervently hoped, the incredulous leap his eyelids took. The glass also warped the image of the girl moving haltingly into the room, but her face had already been indelibly etched in his mind by firelight and moonglow. The realization that he’d schemed and shammed himself into one hell of a prickly fix chased through his head, but couldn’t dim the sheer delight he felt at discovering, in so unlikely a guise, the little minx who’d dropped into his life and his dreams two nights ago.

  “Here we are.” Lord Hampton slipped one arm around his daughter’s shoulders as she stopped beside him.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Earnshaw.” Amanda made the small, polite curtsey expected of her and offered her hand. “How kind of you to invite me to drive with you.”

  There was no warmth in her eyes—the deep blue, near-violet eyes that had haunted his sleep—or in her fingertips as he bowed and drew them to his lips. Something is sorely amiss here, thought Lesley, abandoning the glass as he straightened to better gauge the depths of the ice in her gaze.

  “Do call me Lesley,” he replied, keeping a loose hold on her fingers. “May I say, my dear Amanda, how very lovely you’ve grown up to be.”

  “Only if I may say the same of you,” she retorted, biting the tip of her tongue to stifle the “Ouch!” that sprang to her lips as her father pinched her arm.

  There was defiance in the sharp glance she shot her parent, and a moment later, as her gaze raked Lesley from head to foot, pure revulsion. Oh, this is famous, he realized, she loathes me!

  He realized, too, that Teddy had lied to him, that he’d donned this ridiculous rig for naught, but couldn’t muster himself to anger. Teddy deserved—and would receive—throttling for spinning this particular Banbury Tale, but at the moment, the situation was too ironic to be anything but hilarious.

  Lightly, and in keeping with his character, Lesley laughed. “I do so admire a sense of humor.”

  “Obviously, my lord.” Amanda withdrew her hand and again took stock of him, this time with a distastefully arched brow.

  It was the look more than the comment that nicked Lesley’s ego. The little adder, he thought, torn between amusement and irritation. With such a tongue, no wonder she is still unwed. What was it the Runner, Fisk, had said to him? Appearances sometimes deceive, that was it. And didn’t they just, for he was no more the fop he now appeared than he was, in the guise of the gentleman in the black mask, a thief.

  Perhaps, he thought, it was time Lady Amanda Gilbertson learned you cannot judge a man by the color of his waistcoat or the amount of lace on his cravat. And who better to teach her, he decided, than Captain Rakehell?

  “With your permission, my lord,” Lesley said, inclining his chin to hide the wicked smile curving his mouth. “We don’t want to miss the height of the promenade.”

  “Naturally not,” Lord Hampton agreed, somewhat pensively. “Do run along and enjoy yourselves.”
>
  This is the perfect moment to swoon, Amanda decided, but got no farther than the thought. For when she did not instantly take his offered arm, Lesley firmly grasped her hand, tucked and held it through the curve of his elbow, and all but dragged her out of the parlor.

  Startled, and surprised at the strength in his grip, Amanda failed to notice that Lord Earnshaw forgot to use his cane. He remembered it once he’d claimed his hat from the footman in the foyer, cursed himself under his breath, and slowed their pace to lean upon it as they downed the outside steps and crossed the flagway to his curricle.

  The groom Tom, holding Lord Earnshaw’s splendid blacks, looked away at their approach to hide the grin on his face. Poor man, Amanda sympathized, he’s as mortified as I am at being seen in the company of such a popinjay. Wishing her hat had a veil, a very heavy veil, she allowed herself to be handed up onto the red leather seat, smoothed her skirts, and folded her gloved hands upon her reticule, but made no effort to hide the consternation on her face.

  Amused as he was by her expression, Lesley wasn’t concerned about public ridicule. His curled beaver hid most of his overdone Titus, and the quick buttoning of his coat hid the dreadful waistcoat. He’d further taken the precaution of warning his most intimate cronies what he was up to, and intended to dawdle along the way to miss the zenith of the daily crush in Hyde Park.

  Still ... Amanda looked so woebegone and so charming in her blue walking dress and matching hat cocked at a jaunty angle. Her hair was as lustrously rich and red as he remembered, now pinned in coils at the nape of her neck with curls at her ears that brushed her fur-trimmed collar.

  Perhaps he was being too mean, Lesley considered, all but done in by the memory of her hair loosened and tangled with leaves. Climbing into the curricle beside her, he eased himself onto the cushion he’d affected along with his costume, took the ribbons from Tom, turned to Amanda with parted lips to confess his charade, but pressed them suddenly and firmly shut.