A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  Oblivious to her granddaughter’s theory on impropriety, Edwina continued to flap a hand and smile as she relaxed. ‘I’ve been fair frantic since discovering you abroad when I imagined you safely tucked up in bed.’

  ‘You may retire, Josie,’ Elizabeth quietly directed her maid. The girl needed no second telling; speedily she slipped from the room, her nervous backwards look speaking volumes. Pettifer, however, impassively traversed back and forth, lighting candelabra and coaxing the dying embers of the fire into a cosy blaze, as though just such catastrophies were commonplace.

  ‘You know, the silly thing is, Lizzie,’ Edwina rattled on with the verbosity of stupendous relief, ‘I came along an hour or more ago to your chamber, with m’good idea to help your wretched friend, and dam’ me if you haven’t had the exact same one. Although I didn’t know it then, of course, and have been out of m’mind with worry…and twice resorted to m’salts. And I do think, dear, t’would have been wiser and a lot more seemly to wait till morning to seek the Viscount’s good advice…’

  ‘Please be quiet, Grandmama,’ Elizabeth gritted over her grandmother’s rambling.

  ‘Pray, continue, Mrs Sampson,’ Ross contradicted, arrowing a brooding look at his uneasy fiancée. ‘I should, of course, still be pleased to help, once I know a little more of the problem.’

  Edwina stood with her back to the fire, warming herself. ‘Do you know I was foolish enough to think that Lizzie might have gone to that revolting rookery tonight? And taken with her something of value to buy her friend’s freedom from her fancy man. I was convinced enough to check m’silverware in case she’d absconded with a candlestick or two.’

  Ross’s dark expression became ever more sardonic. ‘I take it from these few odd clues, Edwina, that your granddaughter has a friend languishing in a slum somewhere in very unhappy circumstances. A friend she’s desperate to help…at any cost?’ Although the conversation seemed to be flowing between the Viscount and her grandmother, Elizabeth knew that every word he uttered was directed at her.

  ‘Well, of course! Has she not told you anything? Have you not told the Viscount anything?’ Edwina demanded with a perplexed frown at her granddaughter.

  Elizabeth managed a tight little smile for her interfering grandmother before turning a particularly impudent look on Ross. ‘Did I not tell you anything?’ she echoed, all surprised apology. ‘Well, let me make amends, sir, and tell you now. The reason I acted with such temerity tonight and bothered you at home was…not what your arrogance led you to believe at all. I hope that hasn’t wounded your conceit too greatly. Goodnight.’ With a cursory little bob she immediately turned for the door.

  ‘It would take more than a puerile subterfuge…which, by the by, didn’t succeed…to deflate my ego. And before you retire, my lady, I think we should let your grandmother in on our happy news.’

  Elizabeth swished about, attempting to freeze his words and his person with a purple glower. But he kept on coming until his powerful physique was towering over her petite figure. ‘You should have been more honest, my dear. I just might have been sympathetic.’ The words were light, his expression leaden.

  ‘Now, it’s my turn not to think so,’ she sourly muttered. ‘There is no news to impart to my grandmother,’ she added in a more audible underbreath. ‘As I have just said, nothing tonight was what it seemed. Especially your understanding of my motive in visiting you. I apologise for taking up so much of your evening.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. Now that we are to be married, it would be churlish, indeed, to deny you an hour or two of my time; or assistance with any problems you may have.’

  Edwina hurried closer. Although Ross had spoken in an intimate tone, it was obvious from the woman’s rapturous smile she had overheard. ‘Married, did you say? You have agreed to the match, Elizabeth?’ she demanded excitedly. Her glowing eyes spontaneously swerved to Pettifer, loading logs onto the hungry flames in the grate. He acknowledged her triumph with a quirk at one corner of his finely moulded mouth and kept on about his work.

  Elizabeth fidgeted beneath a tawny stare. She knew he was challenging her. She could revoke her consent and risk his displeasure and his revenge, or she could honour their agreement. She could deny ever having agreed to wed him; but that would be an outright lie and she knew she was not capable of that. She wanted him to generously release her from their pact. She also wanted him to generously return her gems. She wanted too much, she knew. Nevertheless, she raised her jewel-bright eyes.

  ‘No,’ Ross murmured to her unspoken entreaty. He refused to look directly at her, smiling privately in wry acknowledgement of her persuasive powers.

  Edwina demanded again, ‘So, you have agreed to the match, m’dear?’

  After a further silent moment, replete with inner wrangling, Elizabeth muttered, ‘Yes.’

  Edwina seemed oblivious to the bad grace which accompanied her answer and hugged Elizabeth, delighted. ‘Oh, that is wonderful. Quite the best news I’ve heard in an age!’

  Elizabeth kindly reciprocated the embrace, patting at her grandmother’s rotund back. Her eyes looked huge in her wan face; dulled with weariness. They livened enough to dart violet arrows at the man who was watching the emotional scene with an amount of rueful amusement.

  As Edwina bustled away to direct Pettifer to fetch champagne, Ross approached Elizabeth. Taking both her hands in his, he raised them, bringing first one then the other to briefly touch his lips. His fiancée couldn’t summon the energy to snatch them back. She allowed his thumbs to brush soothingly back and forth over the backs of her small fingers.

  His eyes held hers and for a moment she thought she glimpsed a look of tender praise in them. But all he said was, ‘You must be keen to retire. I’ll not keep you longer.’

  Elizabeth could do no more than nod at their touching hands while, way back in her mind, she was fretting that perhaps she should have lied after all: he looked too content. He was congratulating himself on his victory. He now had her fortune. He had her, too: a minor encumbrance was doubtless how he saw that. Perhaps he was already planning to banish her to his Kent estate, while his life in London, funded by her money, carried on regardless. Oh, yes; he had what he wanted! He had won! And the crushing knowledge made her lower lip wobble while her lashes fluttered low over glistening eyes.

  As though cognisant of the reason for her distress, his fingers tightened on hers and he jerked her gently forward. They were so close she felt his words stir her hair. ‘Everything will be fine, Elizabeth. Trust me.’ Abruptly she was released. ‘We’ll celebrate another time, Mrs Sampson, if you don’t mind. It’s been a hectic night for us all. I’m sure you must be more than ready to retire.’

  At the door he executed a polite bow to the two ladies. ‘If I may, I should like to return tomorrow and discuss a few details concerning the wedding and so on. You might like then to tell me more of this unlucky friend’s plight. Oh, one other thing,’ he added conversationally. ‘I’m sure Elizabeth would be interested in seeing just what sort of Cornish stock I spring from. My mother and eldest brother are due to arrive in London tomorrow, as are a few close friends. I would be honoured if you would both dine with us one evening soon. If you are agreeable, I shall announce our engagement that night. Thereafter a notice will be put into The Times.’

  ‘That sounds delightful!’ Edwina gushed.

  ‘Elizabeth?’ Ross said quietly.

  ‘Of course, I must come; I should very much like to inspect your pedigree,’ she retorted with all the bitter sweetness of lamented defeat.

  ‘I still cannot believe you were that rude!’ Edwina rebuked next morning at breakfast. Her knife plunged angrily into the jam pot.

  Elizabeth couldn’t believe it either, and her face grew hot at the memory. It seemed that, lately, never a day passed without her feeling ashamed of some aspect of her behaviour. The reason for her cringing was always the same: Stratton! She was sick of the man! ‘The Viscount and I are well used to exchanging insults,’ was a
ll she offered in mitigation. ‘It is a bad match, Grandmama. You should never have interfered. I can only hope he will eventually come to his senses and release me from my consent.’

  ‘He is not likely to do that, no matter how objectionable you contrive to be,’ Edwina spluttered through a mouthful of toast and jam.

  ‘No, indeed! Not with so much money riding on the wedding lines,’ Elizabeth commented caustically. ‘I’m sure he’ll put up with any amount of my slights, so long as you pay him to take me.’

  ‘I’ve a notion, m’dear, that Stratton would wed you whether I paid him or not.’

  Oddly, that lightened Elizabeth’s mood. She gave a little guffaw. ‘And I’ve a notion, m’dear, that you must have been early at the Madeira, to say so,’ she returned in a droll approximation of her grandmother’s gravelly tone.

  The affection and gratitude she felt towards her grandmother prevented her ever staying mad at her for long. If only she hadn’t taken it into her silly head to get her wed! It was idiotic! It was infuriating! It was Stratton’s fault! she unreasonably judged as she gave her grandmother a fond peck on a chomping cheek. ‘I’m going to fetch my pelisse. Sophie wants to choose dress material. I said that Evangeline might accompany us. She likes a carriage ride and a scout through the warehouses.’

  After a frantic swallow, Edwina choked, ‘You’re surely not going out today?’ She snorted her disapproval. ‘Ross will be here this afternoon. He sent word he is to attend us at three. You must ensure you are home.’

  Elizabeth faced her grandmother again, ivory ringlets a-sway about her graceful neck. ‘I must do nothing of the sort! I’d rather not be present to oversee my sale.’

  ‘Ross will expect you to be here…’

  ‘It’s as well, then, that I shall be absent,’ Elizabeth announced petulantly. ‘Stratton has yet to learn that I have no intention of fulfilling his presumptuous expectations.’ Her small mouth slanted contumaciously as she recalled him yesterday evening requiring her apology, requiring her answers, requiring her gracious goodnights. He would soon learn not to treat a Marquess’s daughter so high-handed, she decided on sallying forth, chin-up, from the room.

  Sophie widened chocolate-brown eyes on Elizabeth’s face. ‘You have received a proposal from Viscount Stratton?’

  Elizabeth nodded, simultaneously grimacing understanding of her friend’s shock. Evangeline continued knitting as though deaf to the riveting news. She was simply glad to be invited on an outing with two lively young ladies…or so the earnest pair seemed to her.

  ‘But, Elizabeth, isn’t he the one…the rather savage gentleman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elizabeth admitted calmly. ‘The very same. But I have to own the tale of breakfasting on an adversary’s liver seems a trifle de trop. Grandmama has had him for dinner, so to speak. She maintains he’s table-trained.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how you can joke about it, Elizabeth!’ Sophie scolded squeamishly. ‘Is he terribly handsome?’ she immediately demanded. ‘I’ve heard Mama talking about him. She and her crony, Mrs Talbot, seem to think he has a raffish appeal…like a corsair…’

  ‘Or a gypsy…’ Elizabeth added with a curl to her lip. Offhand, she said, ‘I suppose he might pass as good-looking. If one likes sallow men.’ The injustice of that bitchy remark made her shift on the upholstered seat. He wasn’t sallow-skinned. He had acquired a healthy tan from being outdoors in the elements. He was handsome…very handsome. He was impeccably well dressed, too. Yesterday she had deemed him the perfect man.

  The memories of her clandestine visit, that blissful kiss, that hurting kiss, made her stare sightlessly out of the carriage window while heat bled into her complexion. With a stubborn set to her soft mouth, she determined to wriggle free of this stupid betrothal at the very first opportunity. Yesterday evening, when tired, she had allowed defeatism too much rein. Now refreshed, she rallied her pride and confidence. He might have won that battle, but he had not yet won the war!

  ‘Have you accepted him?’ broke into her pugnacious thoughts. It was the second time Sophie had posed the question, while leaning across the carriage, gazing into her friend’s faraway amethyst eyes.

  ‘I have…but not irrevocably. My grandmother has landed herself in a financial mess with Stratton and my dowry has been dangled as settlement. The engagement is still unofficial. I’m hoping they will both discover what idiocy it is trying to manipulate me.’

  Sophie frowned. ‘I see,’ she said, when she quite patently did not. The last she had heard from her own mama concerning Mrs Sampson’s financial mess was that it involved wagers with that harridan, Alice Penney. Slumping back against the squabs, Sophie asked, ‘What of Hugh? Have you told him?’ She pulled a little face. ‘I’m quite sure, Lizzie, he is harbouring hopes of his own, in that respect.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him to explain,’ Elizabeth said truthfully. But again her thoughts were troubled. She had written Hugh a brief note this morning, and despatched it with a servant. In it she had apologised for Harry Pettifer twice bothering him yesterday evening. She had lightly implied her grandmother’s eccentricity was to blame, and left it at that. It was rather unjust; it was also unlikely to appease Hugh for long. When next they met, he would expect proper explanations. It was another reason why she was so keen to be abroad today. She would wager—if she were a betting person, of course—that at some time in the next few hours, Hugh would pay a visit to Connaught Street. The way her luck was running, it would probably coincide with the Viscount’s visit. She banished all thought of it. She was determined to enjoy this shopping expedition with Sophie. She needed a little peaceful interlude with a good friend before anxiety again dominated her life.

  Having alighted at Harding, Howell & Co.’s warehouse in Pall Mall, the two young ladies, with Evangeline in tow, entered an Aladdin’s cave certain to enchant any modiste. A wealth of fabric bolts in every conceivable weight and hue were shelved to ceiling height behind polished wooden counters flanking two long walls of the shop. From mahogany poles, interspersed in the room, silks and satins, lace and damask flowed in a confusion of fabulous colours.

  The friends slowly promenaded, turning their heads from left to right, up and down, to survey the shimmering array. From time to time their attention was arrested enough by a sheen or shade to pinch a piece of material between thumb and forefinger and test its quality.

  ‘Have you anything particular in mind?’ Elizabeth asked her friend.

  Sophie stopped by a roll of coffee-coloured velvet, cocked her brunette head. She unrolled a little, smoothed her fingers along its luxuriant pile, then with a negative sigh, walked on. ‘I thought perhaps apricot satin, but I have seen nothing that is quite right.’

  Elizabeth caught at her friend’s arm and urged her between milling customers to the opposite counter where she had spied a length of peach voile. The gauzy material was woven through with gold and silver string ribbon. A length was swirled off the roll, ready for cutting by the draper.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Sophie enthused. ‘The best I’ve seen, if a little too transparent. But as it is to be a splendid ball,’ she chattered on about her parents’ forthcoming anniversary celebration which was to mark their quarter century together, ‘I fancy something a little daring and eye-catching…’

  ‘I must say, so do I,’ stressed a drawling masculine voice. ‘And, lucky dog that I am, I believe I’ve spotted the very thing,’ was whispered at the back of Elizabeth’s neck, disturbing her flaxen curls and making her skin crawl. ‘How are you, my dear? Did you receive my billet-doux?’

  Elizabeth marched sideways to escape the interfering fingers on her small rounded buttock. Even through the thickness of her velvet pelisse she could feel the heat and determination in that kneading hand. Furiously twisting about, she glared absolute loathing at the Earl of Cadmore.

  He simply grinned at her disgust. ‘Still my proud beauty, I see; that’s good,’ he taunted in a low, familiar tone. An idle glance slid to Sophie, who had only jus
t become aware of his presence. He mocked her look of arrant distaste with an exaggerated dip of his head. ‘Send your priggish little friend on with the old woman so we can talk,’ he muttered. He leaned his snake-narrow hips back against the counter, seemingly quite confident of Elizabeth complying with his orders. She did; merely to prevent Sophie and Evangeline witnessing her acute embarrassment or suffering likewise on her account. A few quick, quiet words and an explicit look soon had Sophie leading away a blithely smiling Evangeline.

  While Cadmore waited for them to distance themselves, his effeminately thin white fingers flicked open a japanned snuff box. He took a pinch, his lizard-lidded weak blue eyes lingering on Elizabeth’s small bosom, heaving visibly beneath the straining buttons of her pelisse.

  ‘Go…away! At once!’ was all she managed to choke between huge calming breaths. Livid-faced, she spun back to clutch at the counter, her white-knuckled fingers rigid on the smooth wood. She was trembling with such fury at his outrageous assault that her shame was soon suppressed. He had cornered her before, slyly touched her before, but never in such a public place. Never with such blatant intent and disrespect. And then she learned why he was feeling so cocksure.

  ‘I hear Mrs Sampson has been unlucky at the tables lately. I hear Alice Penney is holding her vowels for quite a ridiculous figure. In the circumstances, a dutiful granddaughter ought swell the family kitty. I could be of service there.’

  ‘And in the circumstances, a dutiful husband ought swell his own family. Should you not go home and paw your wife in private rather than molest a stranger in public? For I certainly cannot be of service there,’ she bit out through her teeth.

  Incensed colour began mottling his face as she alluded to something freely tattled and smirked over: in five years of marriage, the Earl and Countess of Cadmore had failed to produce any progeny.