The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Oh, whether your manly pursuits might not cause the gentlemen to forget you are a young lady,” Delia explained.

  Miss Leighton looked at his sister as if the notion had never occurred to her. “I must admit I hope that to be the case.”

  Now it was Delia’s turn to look surprised. “Why ever so?”

  “It makes things so much simpler.”

  At Delia’s look of inquiry, Miss Leighton explained, “It prevents any foolish tendres from developing. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

  Gerrit couldn’t help laughing, the remaining tension easing from him. Miss Leighton might be an innocent, but she had a practical bent to her nature. Poor Billingsley…

  “But, my dear, I thought you were here precisely to receive such attentions. Don’t any of the young gentlemen appeal to you as more than just sporting partners?” Delia looked so crestfallen, Gerrit had to intervene.

  “Maybe your selection of youngbloods leaves something wanting.”

  Delia glared at him. “Nonsense. The finest crop of young gentlemen of impeccable ton are here at my house party.”

  Hester turned to her immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply I don’t like any of the gentlemen.”

  Delia brightened. “So there is someone who’s caught your eye!”

  “Not at all. I meant they are all very nice.”

  “I think we should come up with another topic of conversation,” Gerrit suggested.

  Miss Leighton bestowed on him a grateful smile. It gave him a curious feeling, as if he were her ally, and he remembered his words to her on top of St. Paul’s about being friends.

  “I hope you’re recovered from your journey.” He read genuine solicitude in her hazel eyes.

  “You make it sound as if I’d crossed the Atlantic. It was a mere two hours’ ride from London.”

  “Still, in this heat, that can take a toll,” Delia said before turning her attention back to Miss Leighton. “You look fetching. What will you have, lambkin?”

  “Just some barley water if you have any.”

  “Certainly.” She signaled to the footman who had entered the drawing room with a tray laden with glasses. She turned to Gerrit with an innocent look. “Will you also partake of some barley water?”

  He grinned at her. “Barley water sounds just the thing.” If nothing else, he must keep his wits about him this evening.

  With a shake of her head, she gave their orders to the footman. “You and Miss Leighton put us all to shame.”

  Soon other guests began arriving. Within moments, Miss Leighton had a bevy of young swells around her. Gerrit smothered his irritation, then left her and sauntered about the room. He was no schoolboy to be part of a young lady’s entourage.

  He stopped to address an acquaintance or two. After a while, he noticed that most of the women were Delia’s age and married. When he paused a moment by his sister, he remarked on this. “All your old school friends seem to be here.”

  “Yes, many are, why?”

  “You didn’t think to invite some ladies Miss Leighton’s age?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I did think about it, but decided against it.”

  He waited, eyebrow cocked, for an explanation.

  “You said to invite lots of eligible young men. I didn’t want to bring in a bunch of debs as competition. I wanted to keep the field clear for your protégée.”

  His gaze wandered over to Miss Leighton. Billingsley certainly seemed attentive. “You didn’t think she’d stand up to the competition?”

  Delia shrugged. “Who’s to say? But knowing how the game is played, why stack the odds against oneself? Trust me, I have your Miss Leighton’s best interests at heart.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep referring to her as ‘mine.’” He didn’t know why it bothered him, except that he didn’t like to claim possession to anything these days. He was not to be trusted, least of all with a living soul.

  “As you wish.”

  He didn’t like the way she continued to eye him. “When are we eating anyway?” he growled. “I’m famished.”

  She signaled to the butler, then turned back to Gerrit. “Let me find Lionel, so we may begin assembling for dinner. He’s probably holed up in the library with some old crony, drat the man.”

  Gerrit lounged against a wall, awaiting instructions, knowing he’d be one of the last in the procession. Curious to see who was to accompany Miss Leighton, he turned to look for her.

  One of the many young bucks—they were indistinguishable to Gerrit with their golden locks or dark tresses combed back à la Brummell—had lined up with her. He shoved a hand through his own straight hair, disgusted with himself for being put out. He was too old and far too world weary to let himself be rattled by the mating game as it was played out in the ton.

  He was paired with a buxom dowager, someone’s widowed mother. Was Delia afraid he’d seduce anyone under sixty?

  Gerrit hid a yawn several times throughout dinner, wondering if he would be able to endure the next few days. He was seated in between the wheezing dowager on one side and an older gentleman, who was only interested in telling him how many gamecocks he had landed in the day’s hunt.

  The elderly matron had no conversation beyond how beastly hot the weather was behaving and could he please pass her plate down to the waiter to get her whatever dish was at the other end of the table.

  His glance strayed to Miss Leighton for about the hundredth time that evening. She was seated farther up the long table. Obviously her dowry made up for any lack in rank. Mrs. Bellows had whispered loudly to him that it was twenty thousand.

  Twenty thousand should buy her a proper husband with no one inquiring too closely after her pedigree. His sister had placed her between Billingsley and another young gentleman. The two men seemed to spend a good amount of time keeping her amused. Billingsley’s gaze straying to her neckline. Gerrit strained his memory trying to remember what he knew of the fellow. Not much more than an indifferent scholar and a good athlete. An older fellow—was that Georgie Hanscom? looking awfully jowly—sat across from Miss Leighton, eating heartily and joining in their lively conversation.

  Gerrit eased back in his chair. Suddenly balancing on the balustrade of St. Paul’s dome seemed preferable to sitting out the rest of this dinner. He’d have to get Delia to seat him in more interesting company tomorrow. Would her suspicions be raised if he requested Miss Leighton as a seating partner?

  When the ladies excused themselves and the gentlemen were left with their port, Gerrit wondered if the conversation would take a turn for the better.

  “Tell us about Waterloo.” Georgie Hanscom leaned his ruddy face close to Gerrit as he poured himself a tumbler full of cognac. “Is it true they were looting the corpses on the field as soon as the battle was over?” He took a generous swallow of the brandy and smacked his lips.

  Gerrit eyed the man’s fleshy lips still moist from the cognac, remembering too late this was why he avoided these social circles and stuck to the company of fellow officers at the taverns. “I heard something to that effect.”

  “Of course it’s true!” A man farther down banged his tumbler on the damask cloth. “Haven’t I got a saber from a French officer to prove it?”

  “They were offering soldiers’ fingers preserved in vinegar when I was over in Brussels,” Billingsley drawled, leaning back in his chair.

  Gerrit looked down at his drink, pondering the merits of dashing it in his face. Waste of good cognac, he decided.

  The man with the saber continued, his face growing red with enthusiasm. “I was in Brussels the night before the battle. We knew something was up when the duke had to rush out in mid-ball. You should have seen the panic in the city,” he chortled. “Everyone on every sort of vehicle from chaise-and-four to farm cart, piled with belongings, headed north. Ladies riding amidst squawking fowl, crying babes. It was a sight.”

  Georgie wiped the perspiration off his forehead with a crumple linen napki
n. “Do y’think Boney’s down for good this time?”

  Gerrit simply stared at him.

  Billingsley swirled the cognac in his glass, “How long were you in the war, Hawkes?”

  Gerrit eyed him, measuring his intent. “Since I enlisted five years ago.”

  Georgie waved a plump beringed hand in front of Gerrit. “Tell me, Hawkes, how were the ladies in Spain? See your red coat and say ‘Si, señor’ every time?” He giggled, a high, girlish sound, a lascivious sheen filming his bulging eyes.

  “And the French demoiselles, Oh là, là!” The overfed young man laughed at his rendition of the French.

  Gerrit glanced down to the head of the table where Delia’s husband and his cronies sat drinking and talking hunting in lower tones. His palms felt clammy and a thundering had begun to beat in his ears. He felt only an inch away from grabbing Georgie by his shiny jowls and squeezing until he began to feel the fear of real combat.

  To what purpose? To give these toadies more fodder for the gossip mill? Hawkes has gone over the edge. He could hear their snide remarks. Poor old duffer. It was the war, you know.

  He looked down at his hands and slowed his breathing, trying to focus on the words around him. The talk became bawdier as the men got deeper into their cups. From discussing the French women, they moved on to the ladies of the house party. Gerrit remained silent, telling himself he’d been no different from these baby-faced young men sweating in their ornate waistcoats and high collars before he’d left for the Peninsula. Now all he saw were the similar-looking young men he’d left mutilated and rotting in the mud on the battlefield.

  It had never affected him during all those campaigns prior to Waterloo. Perhaps it had been the relief of surviving yet another battle, or the driving need to turn the tide of war and set Spain free of Napoleon. Or, had it merely been the oblivion of heavy drinking and wenching between battles? Until Waterloo.

  “Now, there’s a particularly fine morsel…” He caught the words of another young dandy. “She’s young and as innocent as a babe, I’ll wager.”

  “Miss Leighton—l’enfante sauvage from America,” another offered with a laugh.

  Gerrit’s heartbeat began to thud like a dull kettledrum.

  Billingsley swished his glass at them and drawled, “I’ll wager you twenty guineas I’ll be the first to steal a kiss from her.”

  Gerrit clenched his fingers around his glass. Easy, he told himself. By tomorrow they’ll have forgotten this folly.

  Astley leaned forward. “I’ll stand you twenty it won’t be done for a week.” All at once, their end of the table erupted as everyone tried to place a bet.

  The man boasting the French saber thumped his glass on the table. “A hundred quid you can’t get below the neck.”

  Before he could do anything foolhardy, Gerrit shoved back his chair and stood. Without a word he headed for the door.

  “Hey, Hawkes, where’re you off to? Aren’t you going to wager?” Ignoring their calls, he left the room.

  How many times in the past hadn’t he joined in similar crude bets? Why then did he feel an overwhelming urge to attack anyone who so much as touched Miss Leighton? Why did she matter so much?

  Was it merely because he was responsible for her being here and he didn’t want to see anything untoward happen to her? Or did he think he could in some way atone for his unforgivable behavior in the past with Lady Gillian? He stopped, the thought having come unbidden.

  The perspiration beaded his forehead. The affair with Lady Gillian was in the past. Why think of it now?

  He resumed his walk, striding rapidly down the corridor toward the drawing room. He could hear the muffled sounds of women’s voices through the doors and he slowed, debating whether to enter. The door opened at that moment and Miss Leighton herself came out. She turned from closing it behind her and started when she saw him.

  “Major Hawkes, I didn’t see you there.”

  He stood looking at her, uncertainty paralyzing him. The men’s words returned to him, and he could feel the fury return at the thought of their pale, manicured hands touching her anywhere.

  Her brow furrowed. “Is something amiss?”

  He relaxed his features with an effort. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. You are looking at me so strangely…” She smiled. “As if you’d never seen me before.”

  He attempted to return the smile. “Perhaps I haven’t, not like this, at an English house party. You’re very far from home, are you not?”

  “Yes, but I’m becoming accustomed to it somewhat.” She peered at him, her dark eyes clouded with doubt. “Are you sure nothing is the matter?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I was just debating whether to brave the lion’s den and enter the drawing room before the other gentlemen left the dining room.”

  She smiled in relief. “Then, I’m glad I ran into you. I was just going up.”

  He frowned. “So early?”

  She looked away from him. “Yes, I usually leave before the gentlemen return.”

  Had any of those scoundrels already—“Why?”

  His sharp tone drew her attention back. “Oh…they’re always the worse for drink.”

  Without having intended to, he said, “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Would you care to take a turn on the terrace before you retire for the evening?”

  When she hesitated, he added, “I can assure you I’m sober.”

  An immediate smile touched her lips. “It’s not that. I trust you.”

  The simple words sent a spear through him and he wanted to shake some sense into her. “Are you sure you can?”

  “Of course. We’re friends, remember? Come, let’s walk. It’s been a while since I saw you.”

  She put her hand through his arm and he automatically covered it with his, then drew it away rapidly as he realized what he’d done. Miss Leighton’s words continued to reverberate through his mind. I trust you. It came to him then how much he wanted to be worthy of that trust. He struggled to regain a light tone. “How do you find the English house party?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Entertaining for the most part.”

  He pondered the significance of that sigh as he held one of the doors open for her. “You haven’t been bothered by any of the gentlemen, have you?” He examined her face in the semidarkness of the torch-lit terrace.

  “Oh, no. They’re perfect gentlemen. Of course, I would never be so foolish as to find myself alone with one on a dark terrace like this,” she added with an impish smile.

  He felt captivated by that smile. “How am I different?” he managed, a pulse thudding in his temple and his mouth dry.

  “You said it yourself. We’re friends. Friends respect each other and are not a danger to each other.”

  He nodded, unable to formulate any reply to her statement, when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms. But her words stopped him more securely than a dozen chaperones.

  “How was London?” she asked as they walked the length of the stone terrace.

  He kept a space between them and endeavored to follow the change of topic. “Hot. Deserted.”

  “I trust you’ll find more enjoyment here in the country.”

  “I see you’ve become popular with the young dandies but I don’t see many young ladies. Have you missed company your age?”

  “A little. I’ve kept quite busy though, and I write to my own sisters most every day describing the life here, so that makes me feel as if I’m not so far away from them. They’ve been very good about writing to me, too.”

  He stopped and looked out at the darkened gardens, torches outlining the paths. “I noticed a few of the gentlemen being quite attentive to you…Astley…Billingsley…”

  She laughed. “The only reason the gentlemen keep company with me is because I enjoy doing what they enjoy doing, nothing more.”

  Was she truly oblivious to the men’s attraction? “Are you sure it’s only that?”

  “Well, since I am the on
ly unmarried lady under the age of thirty, there is that attraction as well, I suppose.” Humor laced her words. “But never fear for my virtue, dear sir. Beneath all their funning, they are quite a proud group of young gentlemen. They’d have to be in rather desperate straits to lower themselves to marrying a woman whose father is in trade.”

  He winced at the truth of her words, realizing he’d harbored the same prejudices himself. Since when had he gone from thinking her a cit to thinking he was unworthy of her? “You don’t sound too broken up about it.”

  She laughed. “Glad is probably more accurate a description.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I’d hate to think I was breaking anyone’s heart if I found myself having to turn him down.”

  Relief filled him like a warm posset. He turned to lean against the balustrade. “You are a most singular young lady. Most would be sending every sort of lure to snare one of the gentlemen around the dining table tonight.”

  “In that case, a visit to a house party entails some risk to a young gentleman of fortune,” she said in amusement.

  “Untold risk,” he agreed. “But you would be in some danger yourself. I’m sure quite a few would be swayed by your twenty thousand and not mind at all being captured.”

  “Twenty thousand. Goodness. Who told you that?”

  “Mrs. Bellows.”

  She shook her head. “I should have known.”

  “Don’t worry. Everyone’s worth is always discussed on the Marriage Mart.”

  “And how much are you worth?”

  “Not only are my assets nil, but I am actually a liability to any young lady aspiring to marriage.”

  “That must keep you safe from any dangerous lures.”

  He chuckled. “That’s one way to look at it. My sister would look at it as an almost insurmountable obstacle for securing a good match for me.”

  “Is she so keen on your being married?”

  “Oh, yes. Since I returned from Belgium, she considers finding me a suitable wife one of her moral obligations.”

  “In that case I am all the more grateful that she’s taken the trouble to introduce me to society.”