The Highwayman's Lady (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Karen Lingefelt

  Odd, but Felicity hadn’t wished for instantaneous death when she’d grabbed Renton’s arm, causing him to spill brandy down his finest waistcoat.

  But as she watched the man in front of her pull out a handkerchief and pat it over his face—oh, dear heavens, she’d sprayed him in the face—Felicity longed for the floor to open up beneath her and suck her down into the darkest bowels of the earth.

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry, sir. I did know that wasn’t lemonade, because I didn’t want to drink lemonade, I wanted to drink—well, whatever it is.”

  He smiled. “I believe it’s whisky. If you’re looking for something stronger than lemonade, I’m sure there must be some claret in the punch bowl. It looks quite red.”

  But Felicity, in a fleeting fit of rebellion not too unlike the one that had mysteriously seized her last night, had wanted something stronger—not that she wanted something stronger anymore, now that she knew what it did to her. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, she focused her gaze on the stranger. Though his voice sounded vaguely familiar, she was certain she’d never met him before, for she would have remembered such a fine masculine specimen!

  Taller than any man in the room, he had thick, wavy hair of deep gold, eerily similar to the color of the whisky she’d just spewed all over him. His eyes were the color of an aquamarine sea, shimmering between blue and green, set far apart beneath thick bronze brows.

  And unlike Lord Renton, he had a chin, complete with a tiny cleft.

  Like her father and brothers, he was also a soldier—but unlike them, he was obviously no casualty of war, and a fresh pang stabbed her. His scarlet coat, trimmed with glistening gold braid, fit so smoothly over his broad shoulders that Felicity knew there could be no padding beneath. White breeches hugged his narrow hips and perfectly shaped thighs—she’d honestly had no idea there could be such a thing till she saw this man—and an unfamiliar heat flooded through her, emanating from her racing heart and flowing through her veins, with most of it pooling between her own thighs.

  He startled her again with his voice. “But if you’re waiting for me to give you a drink of something stronger than lemonade or punch, then I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.”

  That’s when Felicity realized, to her everlasting dismay, that she’d been staring at him for quite some time—long enough for him to assume she must’ve been waiting for him to fetch her a libation unsuited to a young lady.

  Perhaps that was just as well. She hated to think he might suspect the truth—that she was so stunned by how handsome he was that she couldn’t help studying him from head to thighs.

  “Why can’t you give me a drink?” she asked. “Not that I think you’re obliged to show me any kind of consideration, forasmuch as I—well, it was very rude of me, but I had no idea anyone was standing there, or I would have turned the other way.” Though she might have happily spluttered whisky all over Lord Renton had he stayed in range.

  The soldier smiled again, showing even, white teeth, and another spurt of heat shot through her. Heavens, that couldn’t be from the whisky, could it? She didn’t think she’d swallowed that much. Most of it was now crumpled in his handkerchief.

  Maybe what she felt was nothing more than a simple case of acute embarrassment. She must be as red as the punch he had yet to fetch her.

  “I’m well aware it was an accident, but that’s not why I can’t give you a drink, at least not yet,” he said. “After all, there are those here who might say you shouldn’t even speak to me until we’re properly introduced.”

  “Oh, you mean like my Aunt Cordelia.” Felicity laughed as she recalled what a stickler her aunt had been last night with the highwayman. Best not mention that to this gentleman until etiquette had been satisfied. “Well, you must know our host, or I suppose you wouldn’t be here.”

  She sounded—and felt—like a blithering goosecap as he summoned Lord Howland, who fortunately wasn’t too far away.

  “Howland, won’t you introduce me to this lady?”

  Howland chuckled. “Why do you need an introduction, when you two have already met?”

  The tall stranger frowned. “That’s not what I mean, and I believe you know it.”

  “Oh, I see. You require a proper introduction.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid Aunt Cordelia would insist on that,” Felicity said.

  “Very well. Miss Felicity Griffin, may I present Captain John Jordan—though he prefers Jack. As in ‘Gentleman Jack’?” Howland hooted with laughter, as Felicity curtsied to the bowing Captain Jordan and wondered what the joke was.

  “Enchanted, Miss Griffin.”

  “Charmed, Captain Jordan.”

  Howland went on, “But if you’re searching for a wife, Jordan, I might remind you again that Miss Griffin is already spoken for.”

  Again? Felicity glanced from Lord Howland to Captain Jordan, who suddenly looked very annoyed. Had he already made inquiries about her?

  But they’d never met before!

  “Remember, Miss Griffin is betrothed to Lord Renton,” Howland clarified.

  She thought the better of informing her host that she was no longer betrothed. In the first place, it was a very awkward thing to do in front of one of his other guests. In the second place, it was a very awkward thing to do, period. And in the third place, she wasn’t certain whether she or Renton should be the one to publicly announce an end to their understanding—more like a misunderstanding, she thought bitterly. Lastly, if Captain Jordan was here to look for a wife, then wouldn’t it seem a little—oh, what was the word Felicity wanted? Something of a cross between forward and mercenary. Whatever that word was, it would be very “that word” of her to trumpet her new availability to him.

  A footman materialized next to Lord Howland and whispered something in his master’s ear. Lord Howland excused himself and left the drawing room, leaving Felicity with Captain Jordan, who said, “Now that we’ve been introduced, may I get you something to drink, Miss Griffin? Something you’re sure to find pleasing and easy, such as lemonade?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I believe I will have the punch, instead.”

  As he ladled the red punch into a cup, she couldn’t help noticing it was the same color as her stolen betrothal ring.

  He held out the cup with another smile. “Your punch, Miss Griffin.”

  “Thank you.” She took it and studied the contents. “It’s the same color as my ring.”

  He knit his brow. “I’m sorry?”

  She flipped up her other hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Well, actually, it’s not nothing, but—well, it’s nothing.”

  Thank heavens Captain Jordan did not pursue the matter. “When did you become betrothed to Lord Renton?”

  “Twenty-three years ago. Which is to say all my life, and a good portion of his. His father and mine were friends, and they wanted it.”

  “And you didn’t.” He said it as if finishing her sentence. She noted he didn’t put a question mark at the end of it.

  Even if it was true—Felicity was forced to admit that now, but only to herself—her pride still compelled her to challenge his assumption. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you said your father and his wanted it, but you didn’t say you wanted it—which would be understandable if the whole thing was arranged before you were even old enough to comprehend what it all meant. But don’t you want it?”

  Heat flashed anew in her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to the garnet-colored punch.

  “Why would I not wish to marry?” she heard herself say.

  “I’m not saying you don’t wish to marry,” he said with a smile that filled her with an odd warmth. “I’m only surmising that perhaps you don’t wish to marry Lord Renton.”

  She ventured a sip of the punch. “Either way, I don’t think it matters anymore, Captain.”

  “Why not?”

  How could she tell him that her betrothed had jilted her only moments ago? She hadn’t even told Aunt Cordelia yet.

&nbs
p; “Jordan!” Lord Rollo waddled up to them, out of breath. “Howland wants to see us in the library. Immediately.” His eyes fairly sparkled with excitement, and he looked as if he might burst with glee. “Something tells me someone is being called out!”

  “For what?” Felicity demanded, for she knew jolly well what that meant.

  Captain Jordan favored her with another of his very charming smiles. He seemed to have an endless supply of them. “Gentlemen’s business, Miss Griffin, nothing you should fret about.”

  “If someone’s going to be shot, then I daresay that’s plenty to fret about!”

  “Shot?” called out Lady Howland from the other side of the drawing room.

  “Shot?” echoed Cordelia.

  “Well,” said Captain Jordan, “all that remains is a scream from Lady Lydia. Let’s go, Rollo, whilst we still have our hearing.” He sketched a quick bow toward Felicity. “Excuse me, Miss Griffin. ’Twas a delight to have met you.”

  Amid the flock of female guests crying out “Shot?” like a cacophony of bird calls, he and Lord Rollo hastened out of the drawing room, but Lydia, thank heavens, did not scream as she had last night in the carriage.

  Felicity pondered that. She might not have met Captain Jordan until a few moments ago, but apparently he knew about Lydia’s propensity for screaming. How did he know…unless he learned about it from another guest who’d heard Cordelia’s version of last night’s events?

  Or unless…

  She continued ruminating as she sipped the claret, and when the goblet was empty, she quietly left the drawing room to find Lord Howland’s library.

  Chapter Four

  As Jack, accompanied by Rollo, followed the footman down the dark hallway stretching from the crowded drawing room to the more secluded library, he had the strangest feeling of dread that Howland’s urgent summons had something to do with last night’s prank. That Lord Renton had been sullen and disgruntled since his arrival, leaving Jack to wonder if Miss Griffin’s betrothed was always sullen and disgruntled, added to his worry that he was already accused, tried, and convicted of stealing that ring.

  Though from the twittering he’d heard among the female guests thus far, the truth of that theft wasn’t anywhere near as scandalous as the on-dit that the highwayman—or one of the highwaymen, as whispers indicated Jack had somehow managed to multiply himself last night—had compromised Miss Griffin.

  And Miss Griffin, by some odd coincidence, was the only one who did not seem to want to discuss what happened last night. He’d surreptitiously observed her from the moment Howland had pointed her out to him, and found her so unremarkable in appearance that he almost understood why Renton could so easily ignore her. Indeed, everyone in the drawing room, for all their excitement over an event that affected her more than anyone else, had ignored her, or maybe they just didn’t notice her.

  Jack certainly hadn’t at first, even though she was slightly taller than all the other female guests, dressed in a pale peach gown devoid of all the bows and feathers and furbelows worn by most of the other women, her russet brown hair a tangled riot of curls barely contained in a simple bun adorned with a fillet. For a fearless hoyden given to confronting highwaymen and sputtering whisky, she otherwise didn’t stand out, but perhaps that was because she was, as Howland so crudely put it, her family’s “poor relation.” She was the last woman in the room Jack would have identified as the fiery vixen who’d surrendered her one and only piece of jewelry last night.

  Howland awaited his two friends in front of the library fireplace, his hands behind his back. Jack swept his gaze around the room, but didn’t see Renton anywhere.

  Maybe this wasn’t about last night. Maybe Howland had another harebrained prank in mind. If so, Jack intended to decline. Much as it pained him to admit it, if only to himself, the matrimonial noose was suddenly starting to look a lot more tempting than the noose he’d risked the evening before. He just didn’t want to grant his uncle’s wish of marrying his cousin Grace.

  “I suppose I should get right to the point,” said Howland. “Renton has requested I send away Miss Felicity Griffin, for their betrothal has ended, and since he is of the superior rank, he feels it would not be appropriate for her to remain. Or put another way, it would be very awkward for him, and I suppose for her, too, but he seems more concerned with his own comfort.”

  Jack stroked his chin. “Hm, I was wondering about that just now. They weren’t exactly billing and cooing during the brief time I saw them together.”

  Howland frowned and stepped forward. “Jack, I’m afraid this is very serious. The on-dit is that she was compromised by the highwayman.”

  “That would be you, Jack,” Rollo unhelpfully interjected.

  “I know that’s me,” Jack snapped back.

  “And because of that, Renton considers her damaged goods and decidedly de trop. Considering his recent elevation to the peerage, many others might well be influenced to agree with him. Is there something you’re holding back from us, Jordan?”

  “Oh, now this is very serious. You’re addressing me by my surname. I vow to you I did not touch Miss Griffin. I believe the ladies have exaggerated what happened. Besides, I thought you returned his ring—or her ring—or whoever’s ring it was to him, with some story of how the local watch had already apprehended the highwayman. Instead I’m still at large.”

  Howland sauntered over to the credenza. “Renton wants to see your body after you’re caught, so I told him you dropped your loot at the side of the road while making your escape, possibly for later pickup by one of your twenty-three accomplices, but we found it in time. And that should’ve been the end of the whole absurd affair, but clearly not from all the silly things the ladies have been saying.”

  “And yet the lady most affected is also the only one who isn’t saying anything about it.”

  Howland unstopped a decanter. “I should think not, since she’s now in disgrace.”

  “Disgrace? I do hope you’re pouring that drink for me, because I really need it right now.”

  Howland poured a brandy and offered it to Jack. “Rollo wins his wager—the guests are indeed talking of nothing else now, and the house party is certainly livelier for it—but we have some unforeseen consequences. I don’t know if you noticed, Jack, but all the other ladies are giving her the cut.”

  Jack took the snifter without even looking at it. His glare was fixed on his host. “Certainly she seemed a solitary figure in the drawing room, but I thought it was because she could so easily escape anyone’s notice.”

  Howland shook his head and poured another brandy. “As a rule, she does, but in this case, my good fellow, I’m afraid they really are cutting her dead.”

  “Why? Because they think she was compromised by the highwayman? Even if that were true, surely you agree it would scarcely be her fault.”

  “Oh, I do, but you know the vagaries of the ton, especially when it comes to young unmarried women. Every spinster, no matter how plain, is seen as competition for the other spinsters. And Renton has become quite the catch since he inherited his title. Let’s face it, he was as much of a nonentity as she before his uncle and cousin and father and brother all fell like dominoes in that epidemic. Now he fancies himself as far above the touch of mere Miss Griffin, and you can be bloody certain a great many matchmaking mamas share that sentiment, and will seize any opening, however narrow, to dislodge her.”

  Jack raised the snifter to his lips. “Just out of curiosity, who precisely ended the betrothal? Renton or Miss Griffin?”

  “He didn’t say, and I could scarcely ask. Regardless, she will take the brunt of the blame in light of what happened last night. Jack—do note I’m back to addressing you by the more familiar form of your Christian name—we must do the chivalrous thing and make amends.”

  “Why do I suspect that when you say ‘we,’ you really mean me?”

  “You’re the one who allegedly compromised her.”

  Jack held off taking a sip, for
fear he’d do like Miss Griffin and spray the brandy all over his host. “I’m telling you, Howland—”

  “And I’m telling you that I believe you. Rollo also believes you, don’t you, Rollo?”

  “Don’t I get a brandy?” asked Rollo.

  Jack finally tasted his drink. “Only if you believe me, too.”

  “Aye, as long as I collect on the wager. We—yes, we, the three of us—have allowed poor Miss Griffin to become the subject of vile gossip. But I daresay Howland is right that it’s up to you, Jack, to rectify the matter.”

  “I’m probably going to regret asking, but how do you propose—oh, perhaps I should choose a different verb—how do you suggest I do that?”

  Howland busied himself pouring another brandy. “You needn’t regret a thing, since you would’ve been told anyway.”

  “If you think I’m going to marry her—”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to marry her!” Rollo’s voice cracked.

  “And I’m for her cousin Lydia,” Howland added. “But it’s not the end of the world, Jack.”

  “I never said that.” Jack pointed to Rollo. “He’s the one acting as if he’s in danger of being condemned—and by the way, that danger still exists for me.”

  Rollo snickered. “You do risk a noose, at that. Just the matrimonial kind.”

  Jack shot Rollo a scathing glare, wishing he could do more than spray a mouthful of brandy at him. He contemplated tossing the snifter’s contents into Rollo’s gloating face, but decided it might be more productive to acquire new friends. These two thought they were still schoolboys who thought life was nothing but lighthearted mischief and dodging its consequences. Neither had ever experienced the horrors of war. Nor had their families been torn apart by disaster when they were very young. They’d never been sent to live with relatives who were not only strangers, but considered them a nuisance, good for nothing except the means to preserve tenuous fortunes through arranged marriages to other relatives.

  It was one of the reasons Jack had delayed returning to said relatives—save for his sister, who was very recently married, and happily so according to the letter he’d recently received from her.