Miss in a Man's World

by Anne Ashley

  His lordship sighed heavily when she volunteered nothing further. ‘We progress, but not very rapidly. Might I be permitted to know why you awoke in such a bad humour? You seemed happy enough last night when I left you.’

  When she lowered her eyes and stared steadfastly down somewhere in the region of the standish on his desk, he began to fear he’d learn little else without resorting to coercion. ‘Did something occur on the homeward journey to upset you?’ he asked, grasping at straws. Then a clear memory returned, and he recalled she had seemed rather subdued, after his meeting with a decidedly flamboyant baronet. ‘It wasn’t Sir Willoughby Trent’s nonsensical suggestion about selling you to him that upset you, was it?’

  It took a few moments but eventually blue eyes did meet his above the desk for a few brief moments. ‘Well, it wasn’t very nice, was it?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t very nice,’ he agreed, ‘besides being totally ludicrous. I do not own you, Georgie, you are not my slave. You are free to leave my employ whenever you wish.’

  A further moment’s silence, then, ‘Well, that’s all right, then. We need not dwell on the matter any more.’

  Although her eyes had once again met his fleetingly as she had said this, it had offered opportunity enough to glimpse an almost calculating look lurking in those violet depths that had given him every reason to suppose the artful little madam had made use of his suggestion about Sir Willoughby’s remarks in order to conceal the source of her true ill humour. He decided, however, not to persevere, and with a complete change of subject asked if she could ride.

  She didn’t attempt to hide her surprise. ‘Well, of course I can ride!’

  ‘In that case you may send word to the stables to have my bay and the chestnut saddled and awaiting us in the Square in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Can you make it twenty, my lord?’ she asked, pausing at the door. ‘I must seek out Brindle and apologise to him for my behaviour earlier.’

  ‘Do not consider me for a moment, child,’ he responded with gentle irony. ‘I shall quite naturally await your convenience.’

  It was only by dint of tapping into those deep reserves of self-control that prevented his lordship from bursting into laughter when, half an hour later, they left the house together in order to set off for their ride. She took one look at the chestnut gelding, held securely in the groom’s hand, and her jaw dropped perceptibly as she muttered loud enough for him to hear,

  ‘Oh, my, I never thought of that!’

  He realised at once that it wasn’t so much the horse as the saddle that had brought about mild consternation on her part. Unfortunately, unless he wished to give rise to a deal of gossip and speculation about her, which he had done his utmost to avoid thus far, he could hardly startle the groom by demanding a side-saddle be put on the chestnut. Sensible girl that she was, she quickly realised this herself, and mounted the gelding without further ado and, more importantly, without requesting assistance.

  By the time they had ridden out of the Square, Lord Fincham was convinced she was well on the way to mastering the foreign saddle. By the time they had reached Hyde Park, he was satisfied she was an extremely competent horsewoman, possessed of a fine seat and a gentle pair of hands. All the same, he veered on the side of caution and decided to keep to the less crowded areas of the park so that she might enjoy the exercise without having to concentrate on avoiding other riders and the numerous open carriages that filed into the park at, this, the most fashionable hour to be seen abroad. Besides which, he thought it was time to discover a little more about her if he could.

  He began with what he considered a fairly safe gambit, and one that wasn’t likely to arouse suspicion. ‘You ride very well, Georgie, my boy. Who taught you?’

  ‘My godfather, sir,’ she answered promptly enough. Then, smiling faintly, ‘He was lucky enough to keep a horse or two.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He considered her for a moment in silence. ‘Forgive me if I am in error, Georgie, but I gained the impression from something you said that there was no one responsible for you.’

  ‘No, you are not wrong, my lord.’ She never attempted to look at him, but continued to stare straight ahead between the chestnut’s ears. ‘My godfather died earlier this year.’

  He detected a distinct catch in her voice as she said this, and so decided not to dwell on a subject that had clearly evoked painful memories. None the less, what he had discovered about her thus far, and her general behaviour, only went to confirm what he had suspected from the first.

  ‘Would I be correct in thinking you were never in service before joining my household, child?’

  A moment’s silence, then, ‘You would, my lord. But neither have I lived the life of the privileged few. As I told you, for many years my mother was a cook-housekeeper. I was given an assortment of tasks to do round the vicarage. I was not encouraged to be idle. And my godfather, who resided not too far distant, kept many animals,’ she added, as they returned to one of the main tracks. ‘He especially liked pigs—restful creatures, he called them. I spent a great deal of time with him…and the pigs.’

  His lordship was positive she was telling the truth, as far as it went. Yet, it didn’t go anywhere near far enough. There was something fundamental she was keeping to herself. Unfortunately he was denied the opportunity to probe further by the sudden appearance of an open carriage. To have attempted to avoid the encounter by turning his mount in another direction would have been to offer the cut direct, and he had no intention of doing so to the lady whose generous hospitality he had enjoyed the previous evening.

  ‘Great heavens, Fincham!’ the Duchess of Merton exclaimed, as her open carriage drew to a halt. ‘Twice in as many days! I’m astonished! You usually avoid parading with the fashionable as a rule.’

  ‘Not always, your Grace. Furthermore, I’ve never attempted to avoid you.’

  This clearly pleased her. ‘Oh, you wicked creature! If only I were ten years younger! You see, Lavinia,’ she added, turning to the vapid young lady beside her, ‘you should always heed your mama’s advice. I have warned you to avoid such notorious flirts.’

  ‘Unjust, your Grace!’ his lordship protested, rising to the occasion by appearing affronted. ‘It can never be said of Fincham that he flirted with innocence.’

  She favoured him with an arch look. ‘Well, yes, that’s true enough, I suppose,’ she acknowledged, before stretching forwards to tap the coachman on the shoulder with her parasol.

  As soon as the carriage had moved away, the Viscount beckoned Georgie to ride alongside again. ‘You see now, child, why I avoid this place as a rule, at least at this hour of the day. You are obliged to exchange pleasantries with those you least wish to meet.’

  At this admission questioning eyes scrutinised his profile. ‘But I thought you liked the duchess, my lord. You seemed very friendly towards her last night.’

  ‘It would be the height of bad taste to ignore one’s hostess, my dear child. Furthermore, I cannot help but feel a grudging respect for her. Merton is not an easy man, and certainly not one whose company I would seek too often, either.’

  There was a hint of speculation in the eyes that remained glued to his lordship’s physiognomy. ‘You prefer his brother, perhaps—Lord Rupert Gyles?’

  He considered for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose I do, even though he can be quite feckless on occasions. However, unlike me, he is generally a very sociable, easy-going soul.’

  ‘But last night, sir, you seemed very sociable, most especially when you were with Sir Willoughby Trent, and the duchess,’ his companion reminded him, turning to stare straight ahead again, ‘though I didn’t perfectly understand what you were talking about. It puzzled me… Something the duchess said puzzled me.’

  ‘Indeed? And what was it that bewildered you so much?’ his lordship asked, in a mood to be indulgent.

  ‘She said something about… “the favoured five”.’ A troubled frown marred the perfection of a fine young forehead. ‘But there were d
ozens and dozens present last night who have been blessed to live a life of luxury. Which five was she referring to in particular?’

  ‘Ah!’ Enlightenment dawned swiftly enough, but the Viscount dismissed the topic with a wave of one shapely hand. ‘It is nothing, child, a mere bagatelle.’

  ‘Oh, do tell, my lord! It’s so intriguing!’

  ‘It would seem, Georgie, my lad, you can be tiresomely persistent when the mood takes you.’ Although he sighed, he was once again inclined to be indulgent. ‘Very well. A few high-ranking society hostesses, her Grace the Duchess of Merton included, coined the name for a small group of gentlemen whom Lady Luck seemed to favour at the gaming tables. They have earned the reputation for playing for high stakes. It is perhaps fortunate, therefore, that they win rather more than they lose, as a rule. As I said, child, it is a piece of nonsense.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me who these gentlemen are, my lord,’ Georgie reminded him, clearly eager to learn more.

  ‘Your curiosity is insatiable!’ he scolded, but then immediately afterwards relented when he received a look of wounded pride. ‘Oh, very well. You met two of the group last night—Sir Willoughby and the duchess’s own brother-in-law, Lord Rupert Gyles. Lord Chard, who wasn’t present last night, is a further member, and one of the group died earlier this year.’

  ‘And who was that, my lord?’ Georgie asked quietly, while all the time keeping her gaze averted.

  ‘The seventh Earl of Grenville. Apparently he was attacked by a band of highway robbers while returning home to his estate in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘That is four, my lord,’ she reminded him, when he fell into a brown study. ‘Who is the fifth member?’

  All at once there was a suspicion of smugness in the Viscount’s expression. ‘Why, you are in his employ!’

  Young eyes were instantly turned in his direction, but almost immediately afterwards lowered before the Viscount had a chance to interpret what was revealed in those strikingly coloured depths for a few brief moments.

  That day set the pattern for the following week. Every afternoon his lordship set out for a ride with his striking page. This in itself would not have given rise to comment had not his lordship allowed his young servant to ride beside him, and engaged him in conversation for the most part.

  He remained at home for most of the evenings, too, which was most unusual. Ensconced in his library, with only his page to bear him company, he whiled away many happy hours enjoying games of chess with his increasingly endearing companion. Only after his most favoured of servants had retired for the night did he venture forth, sometimes to his club, sometimes to the more intimate surroundings of his mistress’s boudoir.

  Then, one evening at the beginning of the following week, Lord Fincham broke with routine and requested his page to accompany him out. Forgoing the carriage, he decided to walk the short distance to where a long-awaited party was being held. Unfortunately the gathering proved a dull affair, and his lordship soon tired of the entertainment on offer. Acting on impulse, he decided to go in search of more genial company, and amusement more fitting his mood.

  Consequently, on leaving the party, he hailed a hackney carriage to convey him to a discreet house situated in a much less fashionable area of town, where he knew games for high stakes took place most evenings. He was fortunate enough to discover those he sought, all seated at a table in one of the upstairs rooms, and didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation to join them.

  As he took his seat he noticed the eyes of the worthy seated opposite glance beyond his right shoulder to the being standing dutifully behind his lordship’s chair. Although there was a touch of envy, and perhaps a hint of resentment too, in Sir Willoughby’s expression, he made no comment and quickly returned his attention to the cards in his hand.

  The man on the Viscount’s left, however, betrayed no such reticence, and announced, ‘Naturally, I’d heard you’d acquired a page, Fincham. Until now I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. In all the years we’ve been acquainted I’ve never known you succumb to whims and fancies.’

  ‘And he has not this time, Chard,’ Sir Willoughby assured him, before the Viscount could respond. ‘He acquired the boy merely to vex me, unless I much mistake the matter.’

  ‘And by your peevish tone, Trent, I would suggest he has succeeded in his objective remarkably well,’ Lord Rupert Gyles put in, shoulders shaking in quiet amusement. ‘But what on earth possessed you to drag him with you to this place, Finch? There are persons enough to fetch wine should you require it, surely?’

  This was true enough. Although the owner of the discreet establishment did employ several females to entice customers to part with their money at the various gaming tables, besides encouraging them to drink their fill from his well-stocked cellar, he did attempt to run a respectable house. His lordship wasn’t so naïve as to suppose more intimate relationships did not take place between certain regular patrons and the immodestly attired young women, but the liaisons were never conducted openly.

  All the same, he did wonder what Georgie made of the various young women clad in low-cut diaphanous gowns, which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He took his eyes off the cards in his hand in order to glance up at her, only to discover her surprisingly enough staring so fixedly at Lord Chard that it was almost as if she were attempting to etch each and every line of his harsh-featured face into her memory.

  Her regard, as she well knew, went far beyond what was pleasing. More disturbing, still, was the possible reaction of Chard himself should he happen to realise he was receiving such close scrutiny. He was no fool. He might so easily pierce her disguise if she gained his full attention for any length of time. This hadn’t occurred thus far. Apart from that first cursory glance, Chard had betrayed no interest in the page whatsoever. Lord Fincham decided it would be best if it remained that way.

  ‘Fetch me a bottle and a glass, Georgie,’ he said, after gaining her attention by raising a finger, ‘and then go downstairs and await me in the vestibule.’

  It was quite some time later before his lordship, sated with gaming, went in search of her. He found her easily enough in the vestibule where he had sent her, but not asleep, as expected, in one of the comfortable chairs. Surprisingly wide-eyed and alert, she was in deep conversation with one of the young flunkies engaged to man the front entrance, and deny admittance to any undesirables.

  As he led the way out into the early morning air, his lordship heard a distant church clock chime the hour, and experienced yet another of those increasingly regular pangs of conscience where the being beside him was concerned. There wasn’t a hackney carriage to be seen, so there was nothing for it but to walk at least part of the way home.

  ‘You should have been in bed hours ago, Georgie. It was extremely remiss of me to drag you out tonight, most especially to that establishment,’ he announced as they set off down the street, heading for the more affluent part of town.

  ‘Oh, but I enjoyed it, my lord. For me it was an adventure. I’ve never been to such a place before.’

  He couldn’t help smiling at this. ‘No, I don’t suppose for a moment you have. None the less, I shouldn’t have taken you there.’ He cast her a sideways glance. ‘What did you make of it, I wonder?’

  She shrugged, appearing remarkably unconcerned. ‘The females are little more than painted doxies, engaged to persuade gentlemen to part with their blunt, I shouldn’t wonder. The doormen were characters, though, rather rough and ready, and certainly not to be trusted. But the one you saw me conversing with was rather interesting. His name’s George, as it happens. He seems to know everyone. Addressed all the visitors by name. And knew a deal about them, too.’

  Discovering this did precious little to ease his conscience. He couldn’t help wondering what sordid facts she’d discovered about his fellow gamesters, not to mention himself! ‘Dare I ask what he disclosed about me?’

  ‘Nothing that I hadn’t discovered for myself already.’ She cast
him one of those wickedly provocative smiles that he was finding increasingly endearing. ‘Said you were a downy one, awake on every suit.’

  The instant he learned this, his lordship felt it might almost have been a prophecy. He heard a church clock chime the quarter, and detected something else, too—footsteps behind, closing fast. Crossing the street, he glanced over his shoulder and saw two persons lurking in the shadows, and a possible third on the other side of the road.

  ‘Georgie, perchance, have you any money about your person?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, a few coins.’

  ‘Enough to hire a carriage?’

  ‘I should imagine so.’ The look he received was unmistakably one of surprise. ‘Why, you didn’t lose all your money, did you, at the gaming tables?’

  Concerned though he was, he couldn’t resist smiling at this. ‘What an alarming thought! But, no, child, my reputation remains untarnished, at least where indulging in games of chance is concerned.’

  He was suddenly serious. ‘Now, listen carefully. A little way ahead is a side alley. When we reach it I want you to run down there and stop for nothing and nobody until you come to the wider thoroughfare at the far end. With luck you should locate a hackney carriage without too much difficulty. Return to Berkeley Square and await me there. No questions, Georgie!’ he added, when she opened her mouth to speak, and then quite literally thrust her on her way as they reached the alley.

  Almost immediately afterwards he detected the sound of heavy running footsteps and swung round. Whipping aside his cloak, he revealed a sturdy silver-handled walking stick, which he wielded to great effect, rendering the first assailant unconscious with a well-aimed blow to the temple. Unfortunately the footpad’s two accomplices bore down upon him simultaneously, one successfully knocking the trusty weapon from his hand, while the other grasped him from behind, holding fast his arms. The second blow directed at his solar plexus had him momentarily gasping for breath. He then attempted to brace himself for the next onslaught. One moment the burly individual standing in front of him was balling his huge boulder of a fist; the next he was, amazingly enough, toppling to the ground, like some sturdy felled oak.