Especially one who was so very pretty. Tendrils of strawberry-blond hair framed her lovely face beneath her bonnet of raven silk and crepe. She had a pert nose, freckled cheeks, and a mouth made for seduction. He skimmed his gaze down her form with the expert eye of a man long used to undressing women. Beneath the heavy fabric of her redingote, she clearly had a body made for seduction, too, with lush hips and lusher breasts. Exactly his sort.
Hmmm . . .
Perhaps he could use this situation to his advantage. He’d had little luck this week in finding a whore acceptable enough to further his plan.
He turned to Porter and Tate. “Release the lad, and leave us.”
“Now see here, my lord, I don’t think—” Porter began.
“They’ll get their just deserts,” Oliver asserted. “You won’t have cause for complaint.”
“And what about my satchel?” Tate pressed.
“Your satchel!” Miss Butterfield shot to her feet. “How dare—”
“Sit down, Miss Butterfield,” Oliver ordered with a stern glance. “If I were you, I’d hold my tongue just now.”
She colored, but did as he commanded.
Oliver tossed the satchel to Tate. “Take it and go. I’ll let you know my decision about these two shortly.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the American woman bristle, but she remained silent until the two men had gone, closing the door behind them.
Then she exploded out of the chair to glare at him. “That satchel belongs to my fiancé, and you know it! Mr. Tate clearly stole—”
“I’ve been acquainted with Tate for years, madam. He has his faults, but he’s no thief. If he said he bought it at a pawnshop, odds are that he did.”
“You would take his word over the word of a lady?”
“A lady. Is that what you are?” He cast her a dismissive glance as he buttoned up his shirt. “You vault into a brothel with only this unlicked cub for a protector. You hold a sword to my throat and attempt to extract him from the place by force. And you expect me to accept your word about the situation simply because you’re female?” He gestured at the hapless Freddy, who stood frozen in terror. “You must think me as stupid as your ‘cousin’ there.”
She marched up to him, hands on her hips. “Stop sneering the word ‘cousin.’ Freddy is not some accomplice in crime.”
“Then why is he with you, instead of your supposed fiancé?”
“My fiancé is missing!” She took a steadying breath. “His name is Nathan Hyatt, and he’s my father’s business partner. We came to London to find him. Papa died after Nathan left, so he needs to return home and run New Bedford Ships. I wrote him several letters, but he hasn’t answered in months. I recognized his satchel when I saw your friend carrying it near where Nathan was last seen, and we followed him, hoping he might lead us to Nathan.”
“Ah.” He strolled to where his cravat lay draped over a chair, then knotted it about his neck. “And I’m supposed to believe this Banbury tale because . . .”
“Because it’s true! Ask the people at London Maritime! Nathan came here four months ago to negotiate with them for some ships, but they said that after negotiations fell through within a month, he left there and hasn’t been seen since. They assumed he’d gone back to America. And the owner of the boardinghouse where he’d been staying said much the same.”
She paced the room in clear agitation. “But there’s no record of him traveling on a company ship. Worse yet, the boardinghouse owner still has all my letters—unopened.”
Whirling around, she cast him a concerned glance. “Something dreadful has happened to him, and your friend likely knows it. Nathan would never pawn that satchel. I gave it to him for Christmas—he wouldn’t have parted with it!”
Her distress was quite convincing. He’d lived in or near London all his life and had seen sharpers and schemers by the score. They could never quite hide the hardness beneath the smooth surface of their roles. Whereas she . . .
His gaze took in her agitated breaths, her worried expression. She seemed an innocent in every sense of the word. One advantage to having a black heart was that he could spot an innocent from a hundred feet off.
She was probably telling the truth. Indeed, it would be pointless for her to lie, since he could always hold her here while he confirmed her story. But he didn’t intend to do that. Her tale of woe made her even more perfect for his plan.
Still, before he proposed his unorthodox arrangement, he should find out exactly what he might be getting into. “How old are you?”
She blinked. “I’m twenty-six. What has that got to do with anything?”
So, she was an innocent but not a child, thank God. Gran would be suspicious if he brought home some chit fresh from the schoolroom.
“And your father owns a ship company,” he said as he donned his waistcoat. A rich man had connections. That could be a problem.
“Owned. Yes.” She thrust out her chin. “His name is Adam Butterfield. Ask anyone in the shipping industry about him—they all knew him.”
“But do they know you is the question, my dear.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“So far you’ve given me no evidence that you’re his daughter.” He buttoned up his waistcoat. “Have you letters of introduction to smooth your way here?”
She thrust out her chin with a mutinous air. “I didn’t expect to need such a thing. I expected to find Nathan at London Maritime.”
“You can ask at the shipping office,” the stripling put in helpfully. “They’ll tell you what ship we came here on.”
“They’ll tell me what ship Miss Butterfield and Mister Frederick came on,” Oliver interjected as he slid into his coat. “But unless the captain introduced you to them as such, that isn’t much evidence.”
“You think we’re lying?” she said, outrage flaring in her face.
No, but he’d gain nothing by letting her realize it. “I’m merely pointing out that you’ve given me no reason to believe you. I imagine that America is little different from England in certain respects: ship company owners have a station to uphold. And since I assume that your father was wealthy—”
“Oh, yes,” Freddy put in. “Uncle Adam had pots and pots of money.”
“Yet his daughter could not send someone to find her fiancé, like any respectable female would do?”
“I was worried about him!” she cried. “And . . . well, right now Papa’s money is all tied up in the estate, which can’t be settled without Nathan.”
Ah. Better and better. “So you’re here virtually alone, with no money, despite your claim to have a rich father and a certain station in society.” He fished for more information. “You expect me to believe that the daughter of a wealthy ship company owner—who would be taught to keep quiet, do as she is told, and respect the proprieties—would go sailing across the ocean in search of her fiancé, looking for him in a brothel, attacking the first gentleman who dares to question—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she snapped. “I told you why I did all that.”
“Besides,” her companion put in, “Uncle Adam isn’t . . . wasn’t like other rich gentlemen. He started out a soldier in the Marine Corps. He never put on airs. Always said he was born the poor bastard of a servant, and he’d die the rich bastard of a servant, and that was better than being a rich ass.”
She groaned. “Freddy, please, you’re not helping.”
“So you see, sir,” Freddy went on, to Oliver’s vast amusement, “Mop—Maria isn’t like other women. She’s like her father. She doesn’t listen to those who tell her to sit still and keep quiet. Never has.”
“I noticed,” Oliver said dryly. It was a point in her favor. “And what of her mother? Did she not teach your cousin to behave?”
“I’ll have you know, sir—” Miss Butterfield began.
“Oh, she died in childbirth,” young Freddy explained. “And anyway, she was only a shopkeeper’s daughter herself, like M
a, her sister. Uncle Adam took us in after Pa died, so Ma could raise Maria. That’s why I came here with her.” He puffed out his chest. “To protect her.”
“You’re doing a fine job, too,” Oliver said sarcastically.
“Leave him be,” Miss Butterfield said, her eyes alight. “Can’t you tell he wasn’t trying to steal anything? He went in for me, to check the satchel and see if it had the right lettering on it—that’s all.”
“And was caught running out of the place with it. That’s why those men out there want him hanged.”
“Then they’re fools. Anyone can tell that Freddy is no thief.”
“She’s right about that,” the dull-witted Freddy put in helpfully. “I’ve got two left feet—can’t go anywhere without running into something. That’s probably why they caught me.”
“Ah, but in cases like this, the fools generally prevail. Those fellows out there don’t care about the truth. They just want your cousin’s blood.”
Panic showed in her face. “You mustn’t let them have it!”
He stifled a smile. “I could put in a good word for him, soothe their tempers and get you two out of this with your necks attached. If . . .”
She instantly stiffened. “If what?”
“If you accept my proposition.”
A fetching blush spread over her pretty cheeks. “I shan’t give up my virtue, even to save my neck.”
“Did I say anything about giving up your virtue?”
She blinked. “Well . . . no. But given the kind of man you are—”
“And what kind is that?” This should be amusing.
“You know.” She tipped up her chin. “The kind who spends his time in brothels. I’ve heard all about you English lords and your debauchery.”
“I don’t want your virtue, my dear.” He flicked his glance down her delectable body and suppressed a sigh. “Not that I don’t find the idea tempting, but right now I have more urgent concerns.”
And no man of rank was fool enough to seduce a virgin—that was the surest way to end up leg-shackled to a schemer. Besides, he preferred experienced women. They knew how to pleasure a man without plaguing him about his feelings.
“This may surprise you,” he went on, “but I rarely have trouble finding women to join me willingly in bed. I’ve no need to force a pretty thief there.”
“I’m not a thief!”
“Frankly, I don’t care if you are. The important thing is that you suit my purpose perfectly.”
She had the same brash temperament as his sisters, which Gran had always deplored. She had the sort of upbringing that Americans seemed to prize and Englishmen to despise. A mother who’d been a shop-keeper’s daughter, and a father who’d been an illegitimate American of no consequence? Who’d fought in the very revolution that had cost Gran her only son? He couldn’t ask for better.
Best of all, the chit was in trouble—which meant she wouldn’t cost him a small fortune, unlike the whore he’d planned to hire. But since he’d met her in a brothel, he could still use that to thwart Gran.
He strode up to her. “You see, my grandmother and I are engaged in a battle that I intend to win. You can help me. So in exchange for my extracting you and Freddy from this delicate situation, I’ll require that you do something for me.”
A wary expression crossed her face. “What?”
He smiled at the thought of Gran’s reaction when he brought her home. “Pretend to be my fiancée.”
A Hellion in Her Bed
Jarret cast the man a sharp glance to find him eyeing Annabel with a more than neighborly interest. The alien feeling of possessiveness that welled up in him shook him. So did the sudden murderous rage he felt when Allsopp ran his gaze down her body.
The man had a wife, damn it! He shouldn’t be looking at Annabel like that. No one should be looking at her like that. Only with great effort did he squelch the warning that sprang to his lips. Instead he said, “It’s rather surprising that she’s never married.”
Allsopp downed his punch. “It’s not for lack of proposals. I understand she’s turned down two or three men who offered marriage.”
That flummoxed him. Apparently he wasn’t the only man who didn’t meet Annabel’s lofty standards. While that should have soothed his pride, it raised more questions, instead. Why would a woman so obviously sensual and capable of a deep love for children avoid marriage?
“Perhaps she stays at home to care for her brother,” Jarret ventured.
“Well, he needs looking after, to be sure.”
Something in the snide way Allsopp said it raised Jarret’s suspicious. “You mean, because of his illness.”
Allsopp laughed. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Jarret went still. Forcing himself to sound nonchalant, he said, “No, I suppose not.” He held his breath, hoping the man would go on. If he asked him point-blank what he meant, Allsopp was liable to close up.
“Of course, we don’t tolerate drunkenness the way you lords do. There’s nothing wrong with having a tipple from time to time, but when a man neglects his business because he’s drowning himself in a bottle, we can’t overlook that.”
A lead ball dropped into the pit of Jarret’s stomach. Was that what Annabel had been hiding all this time?
But perhaps he shouldn’t trust the word of a competitor who might have sniffed out Jarret’s real reason for coming here. “I didn’t realize my friend’s problem had become so pronounced,” he said smoothly. “The ladies said he was ill, and I assumed that was the reason for his negligence of late.”
“Well, of course they aren’t going to tell you the truth. It would be embarrassing. They’ve tried to hide it from everyone.” Allsopp snorted. “As if that will work in a town as small as this. People talk. Servants talk. Does the man look ill to you?”
He nodded toward the dance floor, where Lake was dancing a reel quite competently for someone who’d supposedly been under the influence of laudanum only hours ago.
Then again, Lake had been asleep in the middle of the day. Who but an ill man did that?
A man who’s been up drinking all night.
Confound it all to hell. Now other pieces fell into place—George’s discomfort at the subject of his father’s illness. Annabel’s alarm when he’d said he was traveling to Burton to look at the company. Mrs. Lake’s nervousness. He’d known all along they were hiding something. And clearly it wasn’t that Mr. Lake was mortally ill.
He should have guessed. This wasn’t London, and men in the provinces didn’t abandon one of their own simply because he was ill. They made allowances, attempted to help the man’s family, showed a neighborly concern for his condition.
But a drunk garnered no such sympathy—especially in the more conservative circles of tradesmen. He was seen as weak and unstable, which of course he was. His family was pitied, or worse, ostracized.
Anger swelled in his chest. A mortal illness could have been handled. It would have been problematic but manageable. But this was far more dicey. If Lake had lost the confidence of his fellow brewers due to a character flaw, how the hell was Jarret supposed to convince the East India captains to place orders for his pale ale?
If Lake had been on the edge of death, Jarret could have convinced the man to put Annabel in charge. Geordie would have inherited, and Annabel could have managed Geordie. But a drunk was unpredictable and untrustworthy. And anyone getting into bed with him would be deemed untrustworthy, too, or a fool.
Either way, it would be a disastrous association. Plumtree was already struggling—teaming up with a company on the brink of disaster could very well push it off the cliff. How could he have been so stupid? He’d let Annabel’s talk of a quick solution to the bad market seduce him into taking a foolish risk.
No, he’d let the thought of having her in his bed seduce him. And now the company would suffer, because he could never pass up a good wager. Because he had wanted her.
Still wanted her, damn it all to hell
. “How long has Lake been neglecting his company?” he bit out.
“A year, at least. From what I hear, he started drinking heavily after the Russian tariffs began to affect business. He began showing losses, and he couldn’t handle the pressure. Or so I assume. Since then, only the efforts of Miss Lake and his brewery manager have kept the place together. Granted, Miss Lake will do just about anything to save her father’s brewery, but she’s a woman, after all, and she—”
“—can’t effectively run a brewery that she doesn’t own, can she?” said a stricken female voice behind them.
They turned to find Annabel standing there, ashen-faced, acute shame showing in every line of those beautiful features. When she glanced to him, guilt flashed in her eyes.
And he knew for sure then that everything Allsopp said was true.
A cold fury seized him, turning his heart to ice. She’d lied to him, knowing full well how it would affect his interest in the project. She’d used his sympathy for an ill man against him. For all he knew, even her kisses had been feigned to make him go along with her brother’s scheme. Her scheme.
Miss Lake will do just about anything to save her father’s brewery.
And he’d followed her lead blindly, like some besotted idiot. When was he going to learn? Caring about someone was the surest way to pain and loss. And the loss of the Annabel he’d thought he could trust was the cruelest blow yet.
“Miss Lake,” Allsopp said after a moment’s horrible silence, “I’m so sorry. I did not see you there.”
“Clearly,” she choked out.
Despite everything, her devastated expression tugged at his sympathies. He tamped that impulse down ruthlessly. She was a lying schemer, and he wanted no part of her.
But when he turned to walk away, she stepped forward to lay a hand on his arm. “I came to fetch his lordship for the waltz,” she told Allsopp, her hand digging into Jarret’s arm in a silent plea. “He asked me earlier to save it for him.”
It was a bold move, and one that showed her resourcefulness, since he most decidedly had not asked her to dance, knowing that it would only heighten his urge to carry her off and swive her senseless.
How to Woo a Reluctant Lady Page 32