by Suzi Love
Drat the man! A curse on everything about him. If she must be thrown into his company for her sister’s sake, suffer his verbal sparring for her brother-in-law’s sake, why couldn’t the Earl be ugly? Two feet shorter, rotund, and with a wart on the end of a bulbous nose.
Still, she was generally considered a commonsensical person, apart from those few regrettable occasions when she’d acted a little rashly, after which her family had persisted in labeling her Leap-before-you-look-Laura.
Therefore, she reasoned, by accepting Winchester’s assistance, no matter much it irked her, her poor aunt could be driven home all the sooner. And after that, with her aunt snugly resting under her mound of quilts, Laura could sneak out and go the shipping office to check that the ship carrying Becca and Sherwyn had sailed on time.
“I’ve decided you’re quite correct. It’s too terrifying to contemplate, but both those bullets may have been meant to kill me. My staying here will only put all your lives in danger, and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. Aunty, Lottie, and I shall return home and lock ourselves inside.”
Winchester shot her a disbelieving look. “Why the sudden change from brash adventurer to cowering debutante?”
“I’m a logical person. I’ve considered all sides of this argument and have conceded to your superior knowledge?”
Not that she would tell him, but her last reason for following Winchester’s instructions and returning home like an obedient child was so she could dispatch a couple of their roughest and toughest footmen to aid her brothers. She prayed that by sending extra eyes and ear to help Michael and Jonathon search the area around St. James, it would take far less time. She wanted them to spend as little time as possible roaming the streets on foot, leaving themselves open to another attack.
She wouldn’t rest easy until every one of them retuned home for luncheon. Winchester suspected something else had changed her mind but, thankfully, he didn’t waste more time arguing with her, but turned and walked off in the direction of the alley.
Devil take the man! When he reached the narrow opening between two high-walled buildings, he stopped and turned back to look at her. He lifted his arm in a wave, grinned and began to whistle. He disappeared into the alley’s dark depths as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if a madman hadn’t tried to plough two bullets into their heads. Leaving her with only the sound of his tuneless whistling echoing through her head.
Winchester assumed that being born male made him indestructible and impervious to harm, and his skin harder to pierce than the hide of an African rhinoceros. Perhaps his belief in male superiority came from keeping company with clinging females, who were dim-sighted enough to regard his imprudent actions as heroic. The insipid ones that Laura loathed, and who swooned on the footpath in maidenly distress if their hems became soiled crossing the street. It wasn’t in her nature to expect a gallant knight to scoop her up and carry her across a muddy road. She’d rather grab whatever was on hand and build her own bridge across.
In this, she and the high-and-mighty Earl of Winchester differed. She might be female, but she was stoically bred and had learned to rely on her own resources, rather than beg for help. She needed no conquering hero to feel obliged to, and if she wanted to play the frail romantic heroine from Penny Dreadful novels, she’d suitors lining up before her at every ball and vowing to do anything she required.
No, no, no. These three months were her chance to prove to her family she could cope in any situation. If she’d slipped momentarily and let emotions get the better of her, it was only to be expected. She had been shot at, twice, and she could be excused a small level of feminine distress. Winchester’s shoulder had been nice to lean on and his hard body had provided wonderful comfort when she’d nestle into his body for those few seconds. But she couldn’t afford to make a habit of depending on him.
She acquiesced to his masculine ability to scour the rougher alleys around the church and have a better result than she could, as a woman. Although she failed to fathom it herself, one steely glare from Winchester shot fear into the hearts of the lowest criminal. In those grubby and crowded back streets, onlookers were more likely to provide information, albeit with a little coercion, if he was alone.
Still, she had many other avenues to pursue. And if their assumptions were correct, and mad and bad Lady Hetherington was roaming loose on the streets again, it would take their combined forces to defeat her for a second time. She stiffened her spine. After all, she was a Jamison.
She herded Aunt Aggie and Lottie into the carriage, with their coachman carrying his shotgun across his lap, ready and willing if they were attacked. As per normal, the family had made plans to gather here, at Grosvenor Square, for luncheon and to share any new gossip.
Laura managed to accomplish her secret tasks. She sighed with relief at the shipping office when she was assured that, yes, the ship had sailed on the tide. And once alone in the carriage, she had a chance to read the note in her pocket and reflect on the news from their investigator without Winchester reading over her shoulder.
At home, she tried to hide her distress from her aunt, pretending that she’d been upstairs resting. And though Lottie doubted her explanation, she wasn’t prepared for her sister to know how worried she was about their brothers. Nor that she was especially anxious to set eyes on Winchester.
Though she did admit to herself that, on this one occasion, she’d be desperately relieved to see the irritating man swagger through the door. This one time, she might even forget propriety and do something most unladylike and most unlike herself.
Like kiss the Earl’s cheek; the dimpled one.
Chapter Five
Two hours later, Jamison House, Grosvenor Square
Richard, Earl of Winchester, stood at the bottom of the flight of worn stone steps and gazed upwards, studying stately Jamison House and its five levels of red brickwork. The house testified to the foresight of previous generations, who had built in an area of the West End that represented solid family values and financial security. Though any financial stability currently enjoyed by this family was due to Becca’s mathematical genius and her determination to elevate her siblings from country poverty to city surplus. He metaphorically dipped his hat in admiration of a fellow investor.
This residence radiated a magnetic pull Richard couldn’t resist. He wasn’t drawn here to discuss railway shares with Becca, or to indulge sweet Lottie’s fascination with his skull as a phrenology specimen, nor to tinker with Jonathon’s latest mechanism. And though he enjoyed sharpening his wits by parrying quips with quick-minded Michael, his compelling reason for returning, time after time, was to reassure himself of the well-being of the fifth Jamison.
Laura’s knowledge of curative plants and herbs astounded and fascinated Richard, and her siblings and servants were grateful for her remedies. Yet her father continued to ignore her unique gifts. Her disparaging pater reserved his sparse praise for Michael as heir, or Becca as financier.
Richard’s hackles had risen a month ago when the Earl had paid an unannounced visit to his children, only leaving his latest Roman site because funding for the dig had run out. The bastard had harangued Laura, before family and guests, over her inadequate contribution to the family’s coffers. Richard had been halfway across the drawing room before he’d realized his fist was raised and his sights set on the old hypocrite.
Michael, being closer, had stepped in front of his father, allowing Laura a moment’s grace to steady herself. Only the presence of ladies had stopped Richard from reprimanding the older gentleman, physically and verbally, for not respecting his daughter. In his wilder days, Richard had scuffled with the best of them in a few tavern brawls, but never had he felt so driven to plant his fist in a man’s face.
He’d ridden to Jamison House early the next morning, telling himself the whole way his presence wasn’t necessary. Laura’s two brothers wouldn’t return to university and leave their sisters to battle with their demanding father. Even k
nowing that, Richard couldn’t concentrate on the letters and accounts his man of business piled on his desk each morning, until he’d seen for himself that Laura’s self-worth wasn’t again being shredded by the old earl and his self-interested attitude. He wouldn’t rest easy until the old man had gained what he’d come for—more funding—and had left again
Laura fearlessly argued with every other man, including him, yet she accepted her father’s criticisms with such silent stoicism that Richard wanted to scoop her up and carry her far away from the soul-destroying comments the Earl heaped on her. A bizarre compulsion that would no doubt anger Laura and make an enemy of her father.
Being both financier and brother, Richard understood the value of Laura’s herbal remedies, soaps and scented products for their large household. He wanted to stand on the Earl’s rooftop and broadcast Laura’s accomplishments far and wide. And though it wasn’t his place to do so, he wanted everyone to hear about Laura’s work at the Women’s Betterment Society, where she helped financially-strapped women support themselves in ways other than on the streets, or on their backs. Laura allowed the women to replicate her potions and sell them to the hundreds of middle class gentry, who were desperate to imitate every aspect of their beloved Queen Victoria’s life and use the potions to cure their ills the way her doctors did.
Richard saw the heavy brocade curtain in the bow window of their drawing room twitch and, even from this distance, knew it was Laura watching him. He lifted a hand, waved, and reassured her with his everything-is-fine grin. When the hand clutching the drapery released and the fabric dropped back into place, his smile widened. The splinter of light between the curtains’ side partings told him Laura still peered out at him, and the knowledge that she cared enough to wait for his safe return swelled his chest and filled him with a sudden urge to hum, sing, or whistle.
Displaying his happiness was undoubtedly a stupid idea, especially following Sherwyn’s lectures—his last duty before his wedding—when he’d issued a few stern words of warning to his brothers and cousin. The Duke had stunned all of them when he’d given a long list of advisements on how to survive in his absence. He’d spoken with the authority of one now related to the Jamison women, of their contrary attitudes and fiery temperaments. He’d left them his list of three solid rules for males dealing with them.
Never betray your feelings — like their many over-eager suitors.
Never let them acquire the upper hand.
Above all — never, ever let them know you want to worship at their prettily-shod feet.
The sisters, though all ridiculously beautiful, showed an unusual indifference to their looks and placed much more value on how a woman proved her worth in the world. Even impervious and controlled Sherwyn had tripped over his tongue when reintroduced to Becca, Laura and Lottie after his four-year absence. The Duke’s nonplussed attitude when confronted with a room full of dazzlers, instead of the young girls he’d known, had become the day’s jest for the entire Jamison family. Until Becca had stomped on his toes and captured his attention, as well as capturing his heart.
Following his cousin’s path would be a fatal mistake. Richard sucked in a deep and calming breath. He’d been very careful to avoid being alone with these ladies, especially Laura, as he’d no intention of becoming entangled, physically or emotionally, with any well-bred lady. Not yet anyway, not until he’d seen his sisters down the aisle.
Nor would he love a woman as desperately as his father had loved his mother. Loving relationships invariably led to heartache and grief for one or other of those involved. Not a path he intended treading, no matter how much Laura tempted him.
The two Jamison brothers compared their sisters to the Royal Flag. Becca’s redheaded attributes and fiery temperament defied disagreement. Lottie’s pale hair, light as mythical strands of spun gold and offset by the bluest of bird’s shell eyes, inspired poetry.
Flanked by the flag’s red and white stripes waved Laura, the most unpredictable of the three sisters, whose locks gleamed with the blue-black sheen of a raven’s wing. Their vibrant and varied hair colors, red, blue-black and white-blond, resembled the navy’s ensign and, to many, the girls were as dangerous as the Admiral’s fleet.
To his own mind, Laura’s midnight coloring reflected the concealed depths of her psyche: intelligence that intrigued him, honest humor that made him roar with laughter and her never-ending quest for knowledge that equaled his own.
He sighed, surrendered to momentary regret over his desire for the unattainable, before he primed his cannons for the next round of battle. Luscious Laura, as he’d dubbed her in a loose-mouthed moment one drunken night, remained as distant from his ideal countess as the moon. Strange that he was eminently suitable as the man with whom she played their games of friend and foe and advance and retreat, yet she considered him totally unsuitable to be the perfect husband she was determined to seek and marry.
For his own sanity after she married, he’d shock the world by delaying his sisters’ marriages and setting sail to the Continent. Or India. Or the Americas. Or whatever point on the globe that was most distant from Laura’s devotion to her carefully-chosen match. Worse still, would be watching the vitality seep from her body and doubts override every future decision if she chose wrongly, and her days with her spouse were miserable rather than exhilarating.
In the past, his friends had teased him over his deliberate avoidance of Laura, yet it wasn’t because of an often-chased bachelor’s normal dodge from being alone with an unmarried woman. Though he cursed his titles and wealth as a blasted nuisance when they made him a target for marriage-minded chits. In his heart of hearts, he believed Laura deserved far, far, better than him.
Better than a man who publicly decried her notions of sexual selection to preserve the strength of their species. More than a rogue who preferred light dalliances with a list of willing widows, rather than risk involving his heart in deeper relationships. More than a man who’d concealed his inability to read an entire page aloud, without stumbling over every third or fourth word during most of his four and thirty years.
He didn’t honestly know if he was more ashamed of his childhood reading troubles, or of having been too cowardly to ever disclose his struggle. But if Laura learned of his hard school years, the ridicule and bullying, he’d be unable to look her directly in the eye. Overcoming his handicap had been far less humiliating than asking for help.
He’d merely had to spend hours, days, and weeks alone while he repeated words and phrases until he’d locked them in his mind and could recite passages by rote. Yet his terror of disclosure persisted in nightmares, featuring boys from his old school who thronged through London’s busy financial center to broadcast news of his illiterate childhood. Over and over, his tormentors pronounced his secret shame until his business cohorts mistrusted his financial acumen.
Richard shook himself. There was no time for such mawkish thoughts when Laura remained in danger. Striding up to the door, he rapped the brass knocker, hard and loud. Experience had taught him the Jamisons’ servants were a ramshackle lot, a group of lame or stray curs the sisters had collected from the streets. The butler, using the term in a loose fashion, acted more as a protective guard than a dispenser of visitors, cards and tea.
No one responded, as normal. Cursing under his breath, he raised his arm to create a louder racket on the paneled oak door. All of a sudden, it flew open and the subject of his many erotic dreams popped up under his sleeve.
Richard leaned over her to place his open palm on the door frame and stared down at her, his shoulders sagging a little upon seeing Laura ensconced within her own walls and her cheeks flushed with a little color. As he’d searched the labyrinth of narrow streets around St James’s church, he’d not been able to clear from his mind the look of fear etched across her face. Oh, fearless Laura might be ready for any adventure and as expert at hiding uncertainty as he was at concealing his craving, but he knew every one of her moods and terror was something
she rarely showed.
He rested his forehead on his sleeve and battled to subdue his tumultuous emotions. Laura, with her determination to prove her competency in caring for her aunt and sister, would subject him to a tongue-lashing if she saw how anxious he’d been over their journey home. He didn’t want her to compare him to her father, with his constant pecking holes in her self-esteem, yet he could barely restrain himself from grabbing her and running his hands over her body and assuring himself she was hale and hearty.
If Laura noticed the strength of his angst she’d be furious. But if she glimpsed the depth of his desire she’d be blinded. Wanting Lady Laura Jamison and having her were two entirely different things. The wanting he’d accustomed himself to. The taking would be an unforgivable sin against his cousin and bride.
When he looked into her eyes again Richard caught a hint of his own feelings reflected back. He half smiled, contrarily pleased that Laura had fretted over his safety. Surely though she wasn’t as frightened for his safety as he’d been for hers? He’d learned self-preservation as a stripling lad whereas Laura, despite her declarations to the contrary, was of the fairer sex and therefore needed shielding.
Before he could blink, the confounding minx lifted her hand to his eye level and casually fluttered her fingers, before turning and disappearing down the hall. He watched her retreat, all swaying hips and a flurry of lavender skirts, with nothing left but the lingering of her enticing aroma. The scent was one of her preferred mixes and the one he loved best: violets, determined to grow and thrive, strong in color and fragrance, and yet fragile beneath their wildness. Exactly like Laura.
Stiffening his spine and strengthening his resolve, Richard stepped inside and closed the door. No sign of the butler, although the footman who considered himself a cohort in the Jamison’s undercover affairs poked his head around the kitchen door.