A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  Ross jerked off his visor, shook his head, sending shaggy mahogany locks back from his face. He inhaled sharply, then blew, slowly recovering from the gruelling exertion. Stripping off his gauntlets, he wiped sweat from his eyes.

  ‘Not in training for anything in particular, I hope…?’ Luke repeated, attempting to break through the deafness of intense preoccupation that, at times, left his brother stranded within his own consciousness.

  Ross glanced at him, smiled absently, settled wordlessly onto the bench. Guy Markham strolled over, swigging thirstily from a cup. Having recently finished his own match, he was now eagerly awaiting the clash of the Titans. Dickie Du Quesne and David Hardinge were both skilful, evenly matched fencers. It would make excellent sport; as would a bout between these two brothers, should they decide to engage today.

  Sensing Luke’s observation, Ross slid him a look, challenge and reassurance mingling in his slitted lupine eyes.

  Luke felt his uneasiness increase. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s no problem.’

  Ross turned his head away. Humidity had loosely corkscrewed the hair close to his forehead and nape into incongruous little chestnut ringlets. Those by his brow were clinging to skin, sweat sheened to bronze satin, those trailing his neck coiled down as far as the shoulders of his white cotton fencing jacket, now hunched up, as he rested forearms on knees. Luke considered his brother’s perfectly composed profile: his mouth a sensual contour, nostrils flaring slightly as he regained his breath, long, sooty lashes slanting parallel with his cheekbone as he watched his foot positioning his épée on the floor in front of him. Almost cherubic, Luke judged with a wry, private smile… Yes, one might almost think that…if one didn’t know better. And he, more than anyone else, knew better…

  When their father was alive, some nineteen years ago, there had existed a thriving illicit side to Trelawney importing and exporting. The Trelawneys had, for generations, been Cornwall’s premier freetrading clan. Then Jago Trelawney died, prematurely, from a wound sustained in a clash with a deadly rival, and, as head of the family, Luke decreed it was time to bury their infamy and lawlessness with his father. His brother, Tristan, had been in agreement, for already he was betrothed and leaning towards a quiet life farming at Melrose, their Cornish estate.

  His mother had been relieved; their fleet of traders sailing out of Bristol, and their tin and copper mines closer to home, were all showing handsome profits; risking it all for criminal activity seemed pointless. Ross, alone, had seen a point to it, and had carried on regardless, traversing the channel in his own boat. The Trelawney family were by then rich enough to pay for whatever luxuries they needed. Ross needed what was unpurchasable: the skirmishing with rival gangs or the revenue, the thrill of the chase. He was just fourteen years old.

  But he had first sailed with his father and older brothers on night runs at ten. By the time he was thirteen he had an impressive precocious musculature and height, and could fight with fists or sword as well as most men. By the time he was fifteen, he was a superior shot, too. By the time he was seventeen, their mother was in despair and Luke was worried. Neither mining, shipping, land acquisition nor any of the other commercial activities that constituted Trelawney enterprises at that time soothed Ross’s restless spirit in the way that did smuggling. Yet he was far and away the most naturally intelligent of the Trelawney children, if not the most scholarly. Luke and Tristan had worked heedfully at their lessons, and conscientiously attended university lectures; Ross shrugged his way through to graduation.

  He would shrewdly invest ill-gotten money in legitimate Trelawney transactions, then squander an awesome profit on gambling or carousing with women he seemed to barely want or use. Again, it was the chase he desired—surrender defeated him. And therein, Luke brooded, now lay the crux of the matter. This dangerous mood was a lot to do with transition and reform. It was everything to do with a woman he very much wanted but couldn’t use…even supposing she surrendered. He was defeated until she loved him.

  Lady Elizabeth Rowe was beautiful, and without a doubt there existed between them a chemistry of explosive proportions. At one point, when Ross was announcing their engagement, Luke had visions of the dining table going up in flames, so fierce were the sparks flying from one end of the mahogany to the other. Never before had he seen his younger brother so intensely aware of any woman’s presence. Even later in the evening, when post-prandial chatter had them socially grouped yards apart and facing in opposite directions, still Ross was absorbed with the petite blonde who wistfully twisted a priceless gem on her betrothal finger.

  Obviously, there existed between them, too, highly charged problems. Whether those related to her past misfortunes and the scandal that surrounded her banishment from London, he couldn’t say. And Ross, it seemed, wouldn’t say. His brother had not mentioned a solitary thing about her history to anyone present that evening. Yet he obviously realised, at the very least, that all the gentlemen would know. Sir Richard Du Quesne and Lord Courtenay had been rogues about town during that era and, if not engendering outrage themselves, were well aware of who was. Guy Markham had been with him and Ross when the news first broke in the clubs that the Marquess of Thorneycroft was taking his daughter home in disgrace. Luke got the distinct impression that Ross’s silence was a test for them: they could judge her on hearsay or they could accept her as his chosen partner. And there was no doubt in Luke’s mind where his youngest brother’s loyalties now lay. If need be, he would turn his back on them all for her.

  Quietly, Luke said, ‘When I met Rebecca…for a while, the coward in me wished I hadn’t. I knew, from the first sight of her wading in that pond, that I was lost. I couldn’t do without her…I couldn’t leave her…it came out of no where and shattered me. That’s the thing with falling in love, there’s no calling card…no time to prepare, and once you’re in, you never know if you’ll come out the other side whole.’

  Ross arrowed him a humorous look.

  ‘At times, I thought I was going insane,’ Luke resumed nostalgically.

  ‘I remember…’

  Luke grimaced at his brother’s dry tone. ‘It’s an odd feeling: suddenly being in bits, knowing she’s the only one who can put them back together.’ A circumspect look slanted sideways. ‘Is that how it is with you and Elizabeth?’

  Ross flicked his head. It was almost a nod. He kept staring ahead. ‘Yes…she’s the only one.’

  Luke cleared his throat. He shifted a bit on the bench, then tendered hesitatingly, ‘I’m here…you know…to talk…if you want…’

  ‘I know…thanks,’ Ross said, a twist of a smile softening his mouth at his older brother’s gruff concern.

  With that out of the way, Luke gladly turned his attention to the two swordsmen circling, lunging, parrying, and was about to make some comment on their friends’ technique, when he glimpsed Ross’s stealthy movement. He had dipped sinuously to collect the rapier at his feet. Luke’s eyes darted to his brother’s face; it was a mask of brutal satisfaction. Blowing out his cheeks in resignation, Luke looked up at the gaggle of dandified newcomers who were loitering about the arena to watch the sporting spectacle.

  Without a word, Ross stood, sauntered towards them.

  With stabbing little looks, Linus Savage, Earl of Cadmore, watched him approach. In fact, he’d been expecting his presence, and that of his Corinthian colleagues, at this venue. These renowned sportsmen performing here today were the reason for he and his friends stopping off at all at Harry Angelo’s Fencing Academy. Cadmore felt unthreatened. Stratton was with respectable company; he was with his own eminent cronies.

  Since that encounter in the fabric emporium, he’d not seen hide nor hair of the Viscount. Had it been any lingering lust for Cecily Booth that had prompted his hostility that day, it must surely, by now, have petered out or he would have taken her back. With smarting resentment, Cadmore knew the man could do just that, if he wanted. Cecily still pined for him, and the mewling, vicious
little cat was not averse to hinting at shortcomings in his bedsport skills compared to her rugged Cornish lover’s. A bauble or two soon stopped her complaints. But Cadmore knew he was already becoming bored with the avaricious jade. If it wasn’t for the fact Cecily knew a novel little trick or two designed to steady a man’s roving eye, he would by now have discarded her. Perhaps the Viscount had schooled into her those special delights; perhaps he should thank him, he chortled inwardly. Outwardly, he greeted him affably, ‘Stratton; how goes it with you, my dear fellow?’

  Ross moved the gleaming rapier in mocking salute. ‘It goes very well with me…now I’ve set eyes on you.’

  Cadmore laughed, a trifle shrilly, unsure what to make of that. Was it a threat? A compliment? This man had never before sought his company. In fact, he got the distinct impression Trelawney had always despised him. For his own part, he was wise enough to tread softly about such an enigmatic warrior. ‘We heard that there were to be some fancy bouts. Thought we’d call in en masse and take a gander.’ A languid hand emphasised his entourage.

  Ross seemed unmoved by any number of his foppish cronies and slung a powerful arm, terminating in a lethal weapon, about the man’s effeminately narrow shoulders. He drew him slightly to one side. ‘I was counting on it that you would hear and would come,’ was drawled close to Cadmore’s large ear.

  The Earl attempted to wriggle his bony frame from beneath the controlling arm, disquiet curdling his stomach. He glanced about, noting that Stratton’s black bear of a brother was swivelled on the bench, arms crossed over his chest, watching the pair of them through slitted eyes.

  ‘You wanted to see me? About what?’ he protested.

  ‘About a woman.’

  ‘Cecily?’ Cadmore snorted, disbelief plain.

  ‘No…not Cecily,’ Ross said, mildly disparaging. ‘I want to talk to you about Lady Elizabeth Rowe.’

  Cadmore gawked at him, as though unsure he’d heard right. Then, slowly, slowly, comprehension dawned. A sly leer distorted his fleshy mouth. Of course! Why had it not occurred to him before? Ross Trelawney was notoriously popular with the ladies and notoriously fond of a challenge. That haughty whore would be a prime target for his fastidious but jaded eye. She was high born and would doubtless prove a trial, even for such a successful womaniser.

  Over the years, fine sport had been got wagering who would be the first buck to bring her down to earth and strip her of disdain. In his arrogance, and with his luck running so sweet, the Viscount probably thought it would be him. He probably thought she’d fall like a ripe peach! He was newly ennobled, in favour with his Majesty, and to top it all, just to trumpet that he could, he wanted that frigid bitch pleasuring him in bed. What a fine joke! Cadmore barely suppressed a snigger. He would hazard a monkey that the erstwhile cool Cornishman was in hot pursuit of the lady.

  Stratton moping about in a fabric warehouse had nothing to do with the lightskirt he’d discarded; it was everything to do with the one he’d set his sights on. Lady Elizabeth Rowe had been in that shop the afternoon this man had looked daggers at him. He must have been irked at seeing them together. It was no secret that he had been stalking her himself for years. Just as it was no secret that she had made a laughing stock of him, playing up to his court simply to disguise her interest in that snivelling puppy she’d run off with. Cadmore surfaced enough from malicious memories to spy wolfish eyes preying patiently on him, analysing his reaction. Why not encourage him? He wasn’t renowned for lengthy liaisons. If Trelawney succeeded in seducing the ice maiden, he’d make sure he was handy when the thaw set in. He wasn’t too proud to shun a peer’s cast-offs. After all, for ten years past, he’d been chasing what a pair of gentlemen of the road had ditched.

  So what was it this man wanted? Cadmore ruminated foxily. Was he going to warn him off? Demand a few salacious snippets about her? It was common knowledge that he had followed the scandal with fanatical relish. The poor fool wanted a favour or two. Perhaps, he might just oblige him.

  ‘What is it you’d like to know about the…erm…fair lady?’ Contempt stressed the title; a smirk was circulated for those of his chums who were cocking an ear to glean some gossip from this unlikely tête-à-tête.

  ‘What is it you’d like to tell me?’ Ross rejoined softly, staring over Cadmore’s fussily crimped head at nothing.

  ‘Well, let’s see… To start,’ Cadmore lectured, ‘if you’re interested in offering her your protection for a time, I’ll warn you that she’s deuced difficult to approach. That is your intention, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Ross said. ‘That’s definitely my intention.’

  Cadmore nodded, licking his lips; he was enjoying himself, playing up to the attention he was generating. ‘Well, you obviously know that I am…er…have been interested in doing likewise; with little success. It’s not easy; she has an unconscionable high opinion of herself, has lovely Hoar Frost.’

  Feral eyes, looking like green-flecked jet, sprang to his face. Dark brows lifted, demanding an explanation.

  Cadmore obligingly expounded, while grinning at a couple of friends who were in on this private joke, ‘Just a little pun. The sobriquet stuck at the time of her…umm…unfortunate escapade. For, lord, with that silver hair and wintry way she has, who’d ever think she’d been broken in by a couple of hot highwaymen. Mayhap, that night, they felt like riding a different sort of mare…’ He guffawed and a few of his friends snorted humorously too. Most, however, looked a little uneasy on noting that the man Cadmore was hoping to impress seemed singularly unamused.

  Wiping tears of mirth from his prominent eyes, Cadmore patted a fey hand on a solid shoulder. ‘Let me know how pleasurable it is in that particular saddle, won’t you now? If anyone can rein her in, I reckon you can. Anything else you want to know?’ he asked chummily, still smearing wet from his eyes.

  ‘Yes. How do you want to die? Your choice of weapons. Five o’clock tomorrow morning, Wimbledon Common.’

  The next minute seemed to spin endlessly in time. Gentlemen, who moments ago had been dissecting superlative fencing skills as demonstrated by Sir Richard Du Quesne and Lord Courtenay, now stared at the stupefied Earl of Cadmore and his vicious-eyed challenger. For a short while the metallic swipe of steel on steel continued, then lessened until there was no sound but echoing silence.

  Ross walked away from Cadmore, drooping grey-faced in disbelief, and into the group of macaronis. He smiled slowly, thoughtfully, in a way that had some of them fidgeting, looking about nervously. He started an easy stroll about the loose circle, making it open as gentlemen shuffled back, giving him a wide berth. All were exceedingly conscious of the silver blade in his brown hand and of this man’s craft with it.

  ‘Has anyone else got any interesting anecdotes about my fiancée?’ Ross asked quietly. ‘Anything that I should know about Lady Elizabeth Rowe’s past, or their part in it?’ He halted, pivoted on a heel, eagle eyes swooping to rake an arc over slack-jawed faces. ‘Come…don’t be shy. There must be something: an insult…a grope…a proposition, that I’d like to hear about. No?’ He read sarcastically from ruddying, perspiring complexions. Fingers were being thrust to loosen collars, frantic glances were shooting at Cadmore, lingering, fascinated, as though seeing the man for the final time. Facial expressions ranged from numb horror to mischievious relish.

  Luke paced stealthily closer; Dickie and David and Guy followed. In harmony, without a passing look or word, they positioned themselves about the ring of men and waited, grim-faced. Not that any one of them believed Ross to be in any danger. Far from it. In fact, as he seemed to be the only one armed, both with weapon and lethal intent, protecting him from his inexorable quest to avenge seemed the most pressing need.

  Linus Savage, darted an arid tongue about his parched mouth. ‘Fiancée?’ he managed to shrill with a sickly grin. ‘Why did you not say, my dear fellow? Of course, I’ll apologise for any misunderstanding about your interest in the lady, and for any offence unintentionally given. N
aturally, I’ll never again approach her. I’ll not accept the gauntlet on this occasion.’ He started a backwards glide towards the door, ignoring the frank looks of astonishment and disgust from his comrades as they observed him desperately trying to wriggle free of the hook. He might be, literally, fighting for his life, yet the expectation was that gentlemen should resign themselves with dignity to their fate, and preserve their own and their family’s good name at any cost. Death before dishonour was a truism scrupulously adhered to.

  Lord Grey, a longstanding acquaintance of the Earl’s late father, inclined towards him and hissed furiously, ‘Think what you are doing, man! How can you refuse him satisfaction? We all heard what you said about the lady. It was unequivocal defamation! If you fight shy now…think of the disgrace! I’ll stand as your second; Beecher will, too.’ He indicated a younger man with a dip of his balding head.

  The Earl of Cadmore did think; he thought as hard and as fast as his scrambled brain would allow. And came up with nothing good. Death, maiming or ostracism were already his. All he had to do was choose. The situation seemed nightmarish…unreal, as did the venom that started spitting through his teeth. ‘That bitch has plotted this.’ He was unable to control himself, even when Ross reacted to him colluding in his own destruction by laughing. ‘You’re probably not even betrothed to the trollop. Has she hired you to kill me? Are you bounty-hunting for me dead or alive? Run through or ruined? Are those your orders?’ He snickered in shock, for a corner of his mind retained lucidity and was screaming at him to cease, or he might be right here, a dead man. ‘What’s your fee? A tumble in the gutter with the whore? She likes rough trade: thieves and dockers… She’ll go for you.’

  In a fast fluid movement, Ross faced him, pinned him to the wall with his blade through Cadmore’s coat. It effectively cut off his escape route and his raving. The Earl visibly shook and looked as though he might retch.