The Rogue Is Back in Town

by Anna Bennett

  “You don’t say.” Wiltmore scratched his head, causing the snowy white tufts of hair over his ears to stand on end.

  Sam nodded confidently, wishing to hell that the embroidery fabric didn’t feel like burlap against his neck. He didn’t dare venture a glance at Miss Lacey, who was surely steaming like a teapot.

  Wiltmore sank slowly into an armchair upholstered in faded blue brocade. “Your grandmother’s sister-in-law was … Harriet?”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief—the conversation would have turned extremely awkward if Wiltmore had announced his father had no such relative. At last, something today had gone Sam’s way. “Yes, I believe Harriet was her name—God rest her soul. My grandmother always spoke fondly of her.” He rocked on his heels and waited. Lies were similar to wine—once uncorked, they required time and space to breathe.

  “Well, this is an unexpected but most pleasant surmise,” Wiltmore said, his expression jovial. “My nieces and I haven’t much family. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m beyond blessed to have them in my life.” He beamed at Miss Lacey like she was the center of his world.

  “The feeling is mutual, Uncle.” She whisked a wool blanket off a stool, draped it across his lap, and patted his sloped shoulder. “Your nap was exceptionally short today. Would you like to rest your eyes a bit longer? Lord Travis and I could leave you in peace…” Her voice trailed off as if she realized that any attempt to delay the inevitable was futile.

  “Heavens no, my dear! I’m far too curious about our long-lost cousin.” To Sam, he said, “Sit, please, and tell us all about this newly discovered branch of our family tree.”

  Miss Lacey wrung her hands. “There’s not much to tell, is there, Lord Travis?” Good God, she was a noticeably nervous liar … which meant she was also a hopelessly horrible liar.

  Sam sat on a stool opposite Wiltmore and cleared his throat in what was meant to be a signal to Miss Lacey that she should leave the storytelling—as it were—to him. “Your lovely niece is correct, in that my side of the family is small. My father died a year ago, and now only my older brother Nigel and I remain.”

  At the mention of Nigel’s name, Miss Lacey stiffened visibly, but she needn’t have worried. Sam had no intention of telling Wiltmore that his brother was a marquess. He’d discover that in good time. For now, Sam was sticking to the truth as much as possible—or, at least, some convenient version of it.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your father’s passing. He couldn’t have been very old, and it’s especially sad to lose a man who’s in the prime of his life.” Wiltmore offered his condolences so sincerely that Sam couldn’t help but like him. He was the sort of affable, quirky fellow that anyone would wish to have for a grandfather.

  But this was no social call, and Sam would do well to remember it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I do miss him.”

  “It’s odd, the things you miss about a person, isn’t it?” Wiltmore stared straight ahead, as though looking through a window to the past. “My Elspeth used to cut her scone in two. She’d always balk at the size of it, saying she couldn’t possibly eat the whole thing, that she only wanted to nibble on a bit of it. But about five minutes after finishing the first half, she’d invariably come back and devour the rest. And when I’d tease her, she’d say she had no choice in the matter—that the remaining half had been calling out to her.” The dreamy smile lighting the old man’s face said he was still head over heels in love with Elspeth. He shook his head, blinked, and continued. “What do you miss—about your father?”

  Sam examined the threads of the muted gold carpet, debating how much to reveal. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to indulge the old man this once. After all, he needed to gain Wiltmore’s trust, and sharing a glimpse of himself could go a long way toward that end.

  “My brother and I are only a year apart in age,” he began, “but we are a world apart in temperament. Nigel is good and honorable and decent, and I am … well, I’m not. My father was the bridge between us, always able to help one of us cross to the other’s side. Within minutes of a knock-down, drag-out fight, he’d make us laugh so hard that we’d forget what we’d been arguing about. I miss many things about my father … but more than anything, I miss the way he could span the gap between Nigel and me.” Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out the watch that had once belonged to his father, and absently rubbed his thumb over the warm gold casing. The watch was Sam’s most prized possession—not because of its significant monetary value, but because his father had treasured it. “My mother gave him this.” Sam held the watch up by its chain, admiring the way it glinted in the sunlight. “Not long before she died, as she gave birth to me.”

  Sam looked up to see Wiltmore nodding sadly and Miss Lacey hanging on every word. Their scrutiny left him feeling uncomfortably exposed—like he’d walked out his front door without putting on his trousers.

  “Grief’s tentacles wrap around us in unexpected ways,” Wiltmore said sagely. “A situation will arise, and I’ll think, Elspeth will know what to do. Or I’ll read an amusing passage and bookmark the page to show her. And each time, after I recall that she’s left this world, my heart breaks a little more.”

  Standing beside his chair, Miss Lacey sniffled. Sam instinctively reached for the crisp handkerchief in his jacket and handed it to her.

  Her brow creased as though she couldn’t quite believe a scoundrel like him was capable of the smallest kindness. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” Sam tucked the watch in his pocket and mentally reminded himself why he was there.

  Wiltmore reached up and squeezed Miss Lacey’s hand as he continued to address Sam. “I’d like to say the pain lessens over time, but … you know the way of it.” Smiling weakly, he shook his head, mentally scolding himself. “Enough of that. From where do you and your brother hail?”

  “We live here, in town.” It took Sam a moment to realize this was precisely the opening he needed to launch the fib about renovations driving him out of his own home. “However, I—”

  “Lord Travis has very recently returned from the Continent,” Miss Lacey interrupted—damn it all.

  “On a Grand Tour, were you?” Wiltmore slapped his knee, enthused. “You must tell me your impressions of the great masterpieces and ruins. I’m particularly interested in artifacts—did you bring any home with you, perchance?”

  Sam didn’t have the heart to tell the old man that he’d spent far more time in pleasure haunts than he had at archaeological sites. “No, but I did climb Mount Vesuvius.”

  Wiltmore gasped. “Fascinating!”

  Sam supposed it had been. But not even the steady diet of culture, art, and antiquities could fill the hole in his chest. All he’d wanted to do was return to the place where his father’s memory was strongest—home.

  And when he had, nothing was the same.

  “Yes,” Sam replied, thoughtful. “The ruins at Pompeii were a potent reminder that life can change in an instant. The eerie, unnatural stillness of that city made me long for the bustle of London … and I returned to England’s fair shores at the first opportunity.”

  Wiltmore’s eyes gleamed as though he were imagining it all and, at the same time, formulating a long and varied list of questions.

  Which meant Sam must make his move now and tell his renovation tale before Wiltmore launched his first question. “Interestingly, when I arrived home I found that—”

  “—he had developed a new appreciation for the sciences,” Miss Lacey interjected.

  What the devil was she doing?

  “Wonderful!” The old man nodded appreciatively.

  “Yes.” She hazarded a glance at Sam then quickly looked away. Lord Travis has decided to devote himself to … research.”

  Holy hell. Desperate to reverse the conversation, he jumped in. “Actually, I haven’t completely decided on a course of action—”

  “Which is why Lord Travis would like to act as your assistant.”

  Chapter EIGH
T

  Sam loosened the bloody embroidery cloth around his neck. “I’m afraid I’m not in any way qualified to—”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Lacey said, cutting him off once more. “You’re being far too humble, my lord.”

  “I have many faults, Miss Lacey,” he said through clenched teeth. “But an excess of humility is not one of them.”

  “Never fear,” she said, not daring to look at him. “Your lack of experience is not a deterrent. You will help my uncle organize his research, and he will serve as your mentor. Perhaps your experiences abroad will even shed light on certain subjects—or support my uncle’s findings. It’s such an exciting proposition, don’t you agree?”

  Sam blinked at her, dumbfounded. She really should have left the lying to him.

  An aversion to dust and noise was far more believable than his sudden, newfound passion for science.

  “It’s an extremely generous offer, but I cannot accept. I would only be in Lord Wiltmore’s way … slowing things down,” he stammered.

  “A slow, methodical approach is actually best,” Wiltmore countered. “And it would be immensely helpful to have someone to discuss my findings with. Juliette is a wonderful listener, but I fear that one of these nights she shall keel over from boredom.”

  “Never,” she quickly assured him. “However, Lord Travis would offer a fresh perspective.”

  Sam should have responded in the negative, but from the moment that her uncle had spoken her given name—Juliette—he’d been driven to distraction. The lilting, intimate sound of it echoed in his head like a melody begging to be sung … or like a poem that left a lump in one’s throat.

  “I quite agree,” Wilmore said magnanimously. “Lord Travis, you are welcome to join me and wade into the scientific waters any time you wish.”

  “Please, call me Samuel,” he replied, grateful that the old man hadn’t immediately dragged him to his study and begun reading scientific treatises. “I will give the matter serious thought.”

  “Oh, come now,” Juliette scolded. “You’ll never learn anything worthwhile while acting in half-measures. You must immerse yourself in research in order to make genuine progress.” She swallowed nervously, then turned to her uncle and pressed on. “In fact, now that I think on it, Cousin Samuel should stay here with us for a few days. What better way for him to begin his apprenticeship than by diving in?”

  Good God. The last thing in hell he wanted was to be someone’s apprentice. But he might enjoy spending time with Juliette. Perhaps she’d let him mentor her in a few choice activities …

  “I have no objection,” Wiltmore said, snapping Sam to the present. “The house has felt terribly empty since Margaret and Elizabeth married and set up their own households. Juliette shall soon do the same, I hope. And then, it will be only Elspeth and I again—just like old times. However, in the meantime, it would be grand to have another man in the house.” In a stage whisper he added, “Someone I may sneak a cigar with.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Juliette said, softening the admonition with a kiss to her uncle’s cheek. “You know cigars don’t agree with you.”

  Wiltmore winked at Sam. “Now you see why I must sneak them. In any event, I look forward to learning more about your branch of the family tree and furthering our complacence. You must make yourself at home here—you are kin, after all.”

  Juliette clamped her lips together clearly struggling to remain silent in the face of such a distasteful falsehood. One would have thought her uncle had just announced they were descendants of Attila the Hun.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Sam said as graciously as he could—considering he’d been strong-armed into serving as a research assistant by a woman too clever and attractive for her own good. Sam leaned forward and shook the old man’s hand, effectively sealing the deal.

  “Juliette will have a room prepared for you.” The old man smiled proudly. “She runs this household quite efficiently and will happily see to your every need.”

  Sam arched a brow at her. Couldn’t help it. He was already mentally enumerating his needs—most too wicked to mention.

  She pretended to ignore him, but a telltale blush stole up her neck like an incoming tide.

  “Would you like to clear a space in your study where you and your new apprentice can conduct your research?” she suggested to her uncle. “I could send Mr. Finch in to assist you while I ensure Cousin Samuel is settled.”

  “A capital idea, my dear!” Wiltmore pushed himself to his feet and ambled toward the door. “Imagine,” he said more to himself than to anyone else, “what a serendipitous thing, having Samuel appear on our doorstep this afternoon. Elspeth, do I have you to thank for this seemingly fortuitous event?”

  Juliette busied herself with plumping and straightening the pillows on the settee—as though it were perfectly normal for a man to carry on a conversation with his dead wife.

  Dear Jesus. The rumors about Wiltmore being mad were true.

  And Sam was going to be spending several hours a day with him, which meant he’d soon be ready for Bedlam too.

  * * *

  Sam managed to contain his anger until Wiltmore left the parlor—then shoved himself out of his chair and strode to the settee beside Juliette. “What the devil were you thinking, volunteering me as your uncle’s apprentice?”

  “Shh,” she said, casting a nervous glance at the door. “He’ll hear you.”

  “You should have discussed the idea with me beforehand,” he sputtered.

  “It popped into my head at the last moment. And I think it was rather brilliant.” She leaned back against a worn cushion, beaming with triumph.

  Sam sat beside her, closed his eyes, and imagined being cooped up in the old man’s stuffy study for hours on end, listening to tedious lectures concerning God only knew what—the digestive systems of mollusks … the mating habits of beetles … He broke into a cold sweat. “I can’t do it. I was never a very apt student.”

  She picked an invisible piece of lint from her skirt. “I cannot say I’m shocked. But a short apprenticeship is hardly cause for alarm. Heavens, you’d think I’d enlisted you to fight with the British army.”

  “Enduring enemy gunfire might be preferable to deciphering scientific formulas,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

  Smiling with false sweetness, she said, “You are most welcome to join the cavalry any time you wish.”

  He moved closer, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I certainly wouldn’t attempt to stop you.”

  “And the moment I stepped foot outside this house, you’d no doubt barricade the door.”

  She tilted her head, pretending to consider his words. “It’s difficult to predict what I would do. However, if you’d like, we can put your theory to the test.”

  Damn, she was beautiful—and too stubborn by half. Her full lips were pressed into a straight line, and her captivating eyes sparked with defiance. But she knew very well that he wouldn’t walk out the front door. He wouldn’t shirk his responsibility or fail his brother—not this time.

  “I’m afraid you won’t rid yourself of me that easily … Juliette.”

  Her composure fled instantly, and her cheeks flushed pink. “I-I have not given you leave to address me by my given name.”

  True, but Miss Lacey sounded too prim and starchy. Juliette, on the other hand, perfectly captured her grace and passion.

  He stretched an arm behind her, resting it on the back of the settee. “I shall be living here—assisting your uncle, apparently—for several days at least. Given the circumstances, I see no reason to stand on ceremony. Besides,” he said glibly, “we’re cousins.”

  “Cousins?” she repeated, incredulous. “Apparently you’ve lost track of where your falsehoods end and reality begins. Have you forgotten that our supposed mutual relation—your dear great aunt Harriett—is a figment of your imagination? Merely one of the many
lies you told my uncle?”

  Sam swallowed. No, he hadn’t forgotten.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t having cousinly thoughts at the moment.

  Juliette was so close that the citrusy scent of her hair enveloped him, and the slight pulse beating at the base of her throat entranced him. Though she may have been his adversary, all he wanted to do was to brush aside the errant chestnut curl that skimmed her shoulder and press his lips to the satin skin of her neck.

  Maybe a few days trapped in this house wouldn’t be as torturous as he’d feared.

  She leaned toward him, giving him an excellent view of her round breasts straining against the confines of her silk gown. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” she demanded.

  He lifted his eyes to hers. “I have. You don’t want me to address you as Juliette.”

  “And you will respect my wishes?” she asked warily.

  “Of course.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “But since I’m averse to addressing you as Miss Lacey, I shall have to think of another name for you. Something more fitting.”

  “Your manners leave much to be desired,” she said, clearly piqued.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t fret. I’ve already conceived of the perfect name.”

  With a toss of her head, she sniffed. “Congratulations, but I have no interest in hearing it.”

  “No? Suit yourself then … spitfire.”

  * * *

  Julie narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps other women of your acquaintance are charmed by your utter lack of decorum, but allow me to assure you that I am not similarly affected.” She’d had the upper hand for all of two minutes before Lord Travis had managed to wriggle under her skin again.

  “Forgive me.” Despite a valiant attempt to keep a straight face, his eyes crinkled in a vexingly appealing manner. “Like it or not, we have an arrangement of sorts. I thought we should be on more familiar terms.”