Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “Better have a drink first.” Peter dropped into an armchair beside the fire. “Ought to have a drink after such a shocking experience.”

  It was apparently his last conscious thought before his head dropped to his chest and he emitted a thunderous snore. Beside him lay the evidence that he had finished the best part of a bottle of brandy. Jessica tried to reach into his pocket to extract the key, but his entire weight was upon it and she couldn’t move him.

  She picked up the pistol. It wasn’t even loaded. She shook the recumbent form firmly by the shoulders.

  “Lord Steal, wake up!”

  Her efforts were greeted with another shattering snore. From the looks of him, he wouldn’t wake until morning. She glanced around the room. She could hardly call out for help without creating a scandal, and the window was firmly painted shut. It was anyway forbiddingly dark and wet outside, while the bed lay empty and inviting.

  Well, why not? If there was no escape from Peter’s room until he awoke or stopped sitting on the key, she might as well make herself comfortable.

  Without further ado she lay down on the feather mattress and pulled the quilt over her shoulders. She would get up in a little while to see whether her hapless captor had shifted his position.

  * * *

  Jessica awoke with a start. Someone was cursing.

  “What in the blazes! Oh my head!”

  Weak early morning sunlight streamed into the chamber and across Peter’s yellow hair. He sat up in the chair and clutched at his head, groaning loudly.

  “Have you the headache, Lord Steal?” Jessica inquired mischievously.

  Peter turned very carefully. “Good God! What are you doing here? Devil take it! I remember. I must have been three sheets to the wind.”

  “Indeed you were. You threatened a perfectly innocent officer with your pistol, then proceeded to lock me into this room with you, while you snored like a steam engine and sat very thoroughly on the key.”

  “Oh, Lord! This is an unmitigated disaster.”

  “I can’t see why. You didn’t actually kill anyone. The gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Don’t you see? You have spent the night in my room. I shall have to marry you, after all. Oh, God. There’ll be the devil to pay when Deyncourt finds out about this. We’ll be complete paupers, I’m afraid.”

  The prospect of actually having to make a match with the penniless object of his infatuation was apparently a great deal less attractive than it had been as a fantasy. No doubt the young Lord Steal was rather enamored of his expensive London lifestyle!

  “Oh, fustian! Who’s to know? If nobody knows, then how can my reputation be affected? Now, if you will just let me have the key, I shall creep away and no one will be any the wiser.”

  Peter reached into his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Are you sure?” He groaned and clutched at his head again. “I have the most beastly headache.”

  “And well deserved.”

  “My heart will break.”

  “No, it won’t. You will discover that I am nothing like you imagine me and that Miss Brandon will suit you admirably. Now, put your head into a basin of cold water, and you’ll feel a great deal better.”

  He rose gingerly to his feet and followed her to the door. As she stepped into the corridor, he pulled her to him and clumsily kissed her.

  “I won’t tell anyone and I shall do my damnedest to treat you like a friend, but a fellow was never in a worse predicament.”

  Pushing her away, Peter flung himself back into his bedroom.

  Jessica slipped down the corridor to her own room, entirely unaware of the sharp eyes of Cicely Pratchett, watching from the shadows at the end of the hall.

  An hour later, accompanied by the maid, Jessica climbed into the chaise to resume her journey to London. A white-faced Lord Steal sat glumly opposite them.

  Cicely’s knowing little smirk fell on blind eyes. She had gone into Jessica’s chamber to make sure. The knowledge made her positively smug and might be worth quite a bit in the right quarters. Not only had she witnessed Miss Whinburn and Lord Steal kissing in the corridor, but the young lady’s bed had gone unslept in last night.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  The sights and sounds of London broke over them with a crash. Hawkers and traders of all descriptions were crying their wares to the passersby—milk, muffins, strawberries, ribbons. A haze of smoke mingled with the smell of too many horses and too many people.

  The crush of carriages and carts was overwhelming. Dirty children scuttled away from the moving wheels, then crowded around at each stop, hoping to earn a farthing for holding the horses or sweeping a walkway. Everywhere was noise and bustle, cries and laughter, dirt and splendor. Somewhere church bells were ringing, and the clatter of pattens and rumble of iron-shod wheels formed a deafening background to the raucous gabble of human voices.

  Jessica hung her head from the carriage window and drank it all in like wine. She imagined for a moment how she might have felt had she arrived in these streets alone in her donkey cart, and reluctantly recognized that she was glad she was riding safely in a carriage.

  The bustle was left behind as they turned into the modern, fashionable part of town, laid out in gracious squares and crescents. It was still early enough that silence blanketed the elegant streets. The fresh white stone of the buildings had not stood long enough to gather a grimy coating of soot, and the houses sparkled at each other across the charming formal gardens in the center of each square.

  Lady Emilia’s imposing residence stood in a quiet crescent not far from Hyde Park. Wrought iron railings separated the classic façade from the pavement.

  For the first time, Jessica knew a moment of panic. She was committed to staying here for at least a month, but how would her great-aunt greet her?

  As the chaise pulled up in front of the portico, a bewigged servant flung open the door. Peter escorted Jessica up the steps. The butler relieved her of her dowdy cloak. As his eyes swept over her windblown hair, he gave a disapproving little sniff.

  “Lady Emilia is in the drawing room, madam. If you would care to step this way?”

  Jessica followed him up the stairs to where a tiny old lady sat rigidly beside the hearth, like an extra poker.

  “Come in, come in, my child! Don’t stand dawdling like a schoolgirl. Let me take a look at you. Good heavens, I see I shall have my work cut out. Some tea, Jenkins.”

  Lady Emilia turned to Peter, hovering awkwardly at Jessica’s elbow. “I thought Lady Steal was to accompany you? I suppose she is being hen-witted as usual. Never mind. What’s the matter with you? You look positively haggard. Are you quite the thing? I must offer you my felicitations on your engagement to Miss Brandon and my thanks for bringing me my great-niece.”

  She gestured to Jessica to sit beside her and subjected her to a searching scrutiny. “You have quite the look of your mother about you, my dear. Although you don’t have her coloring.”

  “No, Lady Emilia, it is quite my own,” Jessica replied promptly.

  Her great-aunt laughed. “Carry it off with style, that’s always my motto. I declare, Steal, she’ll be a nonpareil if I outfit her in some decent clothes.”

  Peter turned scarlet. “If you’ll forgive me, Lady Emilia, I must go to see Deyncourt right away.”

  “So that your guardian can set you up to cut a figure about town, no doubt. Off with you, then!”

  He mumbled his good-byes and left Jessica alone with her only living relative.

  “Now!” Lady Emilia said. “We’re family, my dear. Your mother was my favorite niece. You must call me Aunt Emilia, and I shall call you Jessica. I am very sorry about your father, my dear. He was a stubborn man, and we didn’t get along. I shan’t pretend that we did. He had positively ramshackle ideas about everything and was a careless scoundrel to leave Whinburn so encumbered, but it’s a hard thing to be left alone in the world. However, we’ll soon put all that to rights. You may make your home
here with me for as long as I live.”

  Jessica watched her aunt’s animated way of talking—the old lady’s head tipped to one side like a bird’s—as memories flooded back of that one visit all those years before.

  “You are most kind, Aunt Emilia,” she said sincerely.

  “Nonsense! You are my own flesh and blood. Now, I intend to show you to your chamber myself. Come along!”

  Jessica followed her up the stairs and along a carpeted hall. Her bedchamber was at the front of the house, overlooking the quiet gardens in the crescent beneath. The tall windows were swathed in ivory curtains.

  Cicely had been unpacking Jessica’s clothes. As the ladies entered she dropped into a deep curtsy.

  “My dear child! Is that all your luggage? And so out of style. We shall get you a new wardrobe immediately. And is this your maid from Whinburn House?”

  “No, Aunt, this is Cicely Pratchett. Lady Honoria Melton was kind enough to lend me her services at Tresham. She will be anxious to return to Lady Honoria now, I’m sure.”

  Lady Emilia turned to the maid. “But you will stay on until I can find my niece a suitable replacement. Lady Honoria could have no objection.”

  Cicely bobbed another curtsy and nodded. Her face was the mask of the perfect servant.

  “Well, freshen up, Jessica, and join me for luncheon, and you can explain all this. You and I are to become the best of friends. I can feel it in my old bones.”

  And with a sudden, surprising kiss to her cheek, Lady Emilia bustled from the room.

  * * *

  By the next morning Jessica had discovered how much pleasure her visit was bringing the old lady. To spurn Lady Emilia’s generosity out of pride would be cruel, and there would be time enough yet to pursue her own living once the month she had promised Deyncourt was up.

  Besides, that glimpse of the overwhelming size of London had slightly shaken her confidence.

  Later, as they sat together in the withdrawing room, Aunt Emilia poured over fashion plates and fabric swatches and tossed those she liked to her great-niece.

  “I shall see that you look a credit to me. What do you think of this? In a sprigged muslin with russet ribbons? Or this riding habit, in gray to match your eyes. White piping, I think, and a hat with a white plume. You would seem to need everything. The mantua-maker will be here this afternoon to take your measurements.”

  “To be honest, Aunt, I hardly know what I like. I have never given much thought to fashion.”

  Her great-aunt squinted at her over the top of a pair of pince-nez. “So I understand, young lady, nor to correct behavior. You would just as soon run wild like an urchin, or travel the highways like a tinker. Nevertheless, I intend you to dazzle the beaux and make a good match. But you will have to learn the rules of propriety, or you will get nowhere.”

  “But I do not wish to marry,” Jessica said.

  Lady Emilia gave her a shrewd glance. “Because you have a head full of wild notions placed there by your father? Stuff!”

  For a moment, real panic almost choked her, as if she heard a trap closing with no way out. “No, no, I cannot marry, truly, Aunt.”

  “Good heavens, child! No one will force you. But there’s no harm in having a little fun in society. And if you think you will make faux pas, all the more reason to cut a dash. We shall enjoy a splendid round of routs and assemblies and grand balls—”

  “But I can’t dance,” Jessica said. “I never have.”

  Her aunt stared at her for a moment. “Thanks to your careless father, no doubt. Then I shall hire a dancing master to teach you.”

  Jessica swallowed hard and said nothing, but a footman entered to announce a visitor. “Lord Deyncourt, my lady.”

  “Show him up! Show him up! I don’t stand on ceremony with Michael Grey. He shall give us his opinion. I know of no one with such impeccable taste.”

  Thus Jessica was destined to next see him in a room strewn with frippery, pattern plates, and a patchwork of muslin, satin, and silk. It was extremely humiliating, especially since the earl’s keen gaze seemed to take in her discomfort at a glance.

  “I am having a wardrobe made up for her, Deyncourt,” the old lady announced. “We shall be in your debt if you will give us your opinion.”

  “That is, I do not wish to impose upon your valuable time with my private affairs,” Jessica said. “No doubt you have important business in town?”

  “Not at all, Miss Whinburn. It is my pleasure if I may be of service. Besides, when Lady Emilia beckons, we humbler mortals must obey.”

  The old lady laughed and all objections were overridden. Her aunt was soon discussing hats and fabrics under the apparently careless scrutiny of the earl.

  Jessica became aware immediately that the wardrobe that would result would almost entirely reflect his judgment, even though Lady Emilia was left with the impression that each choice was her own idea. Meanwhile, Jessica herself was no longer to be consulted.

  Was Lord Deyncourt really nothing but a manipulator of other people’s emotions?

  He even stayed to take tea and greatly amused the old lady with an account of the latest events to scandalize London. A new exhibit of art was doing much to raise eyebrows.

  “You are unusually quiet, Miss Whinburn,” he said to her suddenly. “Do you have no opinion?”

  “None that matters, obviously,” she replied.

  He only laughed. “Then I must attempt to remedy such a deplorable state of affairs. Might I prevail upon you to accompany me to the gallery later this week?”

  The rejection that sprang to her lips was cut off as Lady Emilia interrupted and accepted for her. It was instantly settled that he should collect her one morning and take her to the exhibit.

  The minute he left, Jessica turned to her great-aunt. “Aunt Emilia, I must beg of you not to accept invitations for me. I am three-and-twenty, no longer a child. It is very distasteful to me to be forced to go out with this gentleman.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! I fully expect him to act as your guardian angel. No one else of my acquaintance has so much consequence. He is a charming and cultivated gentleman, as well as a bit of a rogue, and I would trust you with him as I trust myself.”

  Trust him! Jessica had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. He had begun their acquaintance by offering to make her his mistress, then continued to demonstrate nothing but an insufferable arrogance ever since.

  Nevertheless, a week later, dressed in a devastating new outfit of dark blue jaconet with matching bonnet, Jessica accompanied the earl through the fashionable streets.

  “It can only be uncomfortable for you to escort me, Lord Deyncourt,” she began. “I hope that in future you will not allow my great-aunt to persuade you to do anything contrary to your own wishes.”

  His eyebrow lifted a little. “If you think that I do anything against my own inclination, you do not know me very well, Miss Whinburn, in spite of our enforced intimacy at Tresham.”

  “An intimacy that was not of my choosing.”

  “No, and then you were sadly excluded from activities. The trip to Holy Cross was most edifying, for example.”

  “When you forced Lord Steal to offer for Miss Brandon? I was more than happy not to witness that.”

  “Because you think they will be unhappy? Or because you can’t believe that no force was involved?”

  “Let’s change the subject,” she said.

  “Very well. You had horses at Whinburn. Now you’re no longer lame, we shall ride together here.”

  “Fortunately, I don’t have a mount.”

  “You will. Lady Emilia has asked me to pick out an animal for you.”

  Jessica stopped dead. “If my aunt is really to provide me with a horse, I would rather select it for myself.”

  “No doubt. But ladies do not attend Tattersalls, and you have no acquaintance from whom to make a private purchase. However, if you prefer it, I will leave you to ride a hired hack when you make your entrée in Hyde Park.” />
  She turned to face him, genuinely angry. “Why must ladies’ choices be restricted to either the trivial or unfair? I probably know more about horseflesh than half the gentlemen in London.”

  “Do you indeed?”

  “Papa often traded horses—” She stopped. “Even when I select my wardrobe, your opinion must be consulted.”

  “Are you unhappy with the result? You look beautiful.”

  “Your professional opinion as a rake? I really don’t care about my appearance, except that it pleases my aunt to dress me. But you might concede that you would have felt humiliated had you been served so.”

  “I?” He appeared stunned for a moment. “Touché, Miss Whinburn. I shall never advise you on your wardrobe again. Yet I pray that you will allow me to select you a horse. You shall have complete veto power.”

  “I see I have no other choice, since real power is apparently the one thing that I will never have.”

  She spun away from him and almost crashed into Lord Steal. Dressed in a splendidly outlandish coat, Peter stood grinning bashfully at her, with Miss Caroline Brandon on his arm.

  “I’m so glad to see you again,” Caroline said warmly, after they all exchanged greetings. She linked her arm with Jessica’s and the ladies strolled on up the street. “It will be such fun to have a friend in London, especially one who already knows Lord Steal.”

  Jessica glanced back at that young gentleman, walking behind with Lord Deyncourt.

  Peter was gazing at her like a puppy with the megrims, while the earl lazily watched them both.

  Her brow contracted in thought, Jessica was hardly aware of Caroline’s friendly chatter.

  * * *

  Michael watched Jessica with a similar expression. He was not surprised that Steal was head over heels in love with her. Lady Emilia’s great-niece might be unconventional, but there was definitely something very appealing about her. God, more than that! He was dangerously attracted to her himself. But how dare she encourage his ward!

  Steal had come straight to Deyncourt House on his arrival in London, ostensibly to report to his guardian about estate business. Michael noticed immediately the stricken look on his young features.