Between a Rake and a Hard Place

by Connie Mason

  She removed his tailcoat and handed it back to him. “Go collect your gig.”

  Four

  Lady S. was seen leaving the opera early last night. One wonders if it was truly from a sick headache, as this reporter heard, or if the woefully inadequate tenor attempting to sing the role of Ferrando did in her ladyship. Either way we wish the lady well, especially since she is one of the young, chaste, and hopefully fecund potentials sprinting in the Hymen Race Terrific. Godspeed, Lady S. And may the best virgin win!

  From Le Dernier Mot,

  The Final Word on News That Everyone

  Who Is Anyone Should Know

  Jonah kept his gig to a sedate walk in order to allow enough distance between it and Serena’s hansom. If he was going to win her trust, it wouldn’t do to occasion idle talk should anyone notice that they were leaving the opera at around the same time. The irony wasn’t lost on him that by so doing he was actually protecting her reputation when his commission from Alcock was specifically to ruin it.

  But if he was going to upend the girl’s life by destroying her chances with the royal duke, the least he could do was make sure she had a little fun before he did it. And Lady Serena’s ideas of fun were certainly out of the ordinary.

  He’d expected her to be a typical pudding-headed debutante, totally silly and easily swiveable. Instead, she was the sort who donned men’s clothes and set out in search of a good cup of coffee. The world might call her mad, but Jonah thought he understood her.

  She wanted to experience life before she was shut up in a royal cage.

  He knew something about feeling enclosed. Jonah’s cage wasn’t royal, but it had bars, nonetheless. Each night, they lowered on his mind and he relived the hard paths he’d been obliged to tread. Everything he’d done had needed doing for the common good, for king and country. And he’d been willing to do them at the time.

  But he hadn’t reckoned on the weight of those deeds afterward.

  The hansom stopped ahead of him and he halted half a block away. Lady Serena climbed down from the hired conveyance and waved the driver on.

  A woman who’s willing to hazard herself merely for the sake of having an adventure.

  She was truly unique.

  Easy, Sharp, he told himself. Remember what you’re about.

  It was all right for him to be intrigued by her, but it wouldn’t do to start admiring her too much. As with his other assignments, a certain professional distance must be maintained. So long as Serena Osbourne gave herself to him freely, his conscience would be clear.

  As soon as the hansom clattered away, she lifted her skirts and broke into a trot in his direction. He wished the lamplight were a little brighter. At that pace, she ought to be showing a good bit of ankle. Jonah climbed down from the gig so he could help her up onto the seat.

  When he joined her there, she grinned up at him.

  “This feels positively wicked,” she said. Her eyes sparked with enjoyment. The subterfuge only added to her sense of adventure, he realized. That could be useful later.

  He smiled as he drove the gig down an alley and stopped before a small stable. A groom appeared to take the mare’s head and tend to the gig.

  Jonah helped Serena down, offered her his arm, and led her to the back door of his town house. He supposed it might have seemed a bit more imposing if he’d arranged for her to come in from the front. His decorating tastes were simple, but not inelegant. The Gainsborough in the foyer had cost him far more than he should have spent on something as nonessential as a painting, but the small landscape had a soothing quality that he couldn’t ignore. Once he’d seen it, he had to have it. Every room in his home was sparsely furnished, but each piece spoke to him of comfort and tranquility—something he’d had precious little of in his life.

  But whether they entered from the alley or the marginally fashionable street, his home was probably not grand enough to impress the daughter of a marquis.

  The kitchen wasn’t large, but a banked fire lit the small space with a rosy glow. Jonah knew it was spotless. Mrs. Hampstead, who came in and worked days, was a stickler for keeping the floors clean enough to eat from. Garlands of onions and garlic were strung from the rafters, and the herbs growing in the windowsill gave the room a pleasing, savory aroma.

  “This way,” he said, taking Serena’s hand and leading her in the dark.

  When they reached the front parlor, they met his manservant Paulson, who was holding a candle. Blinking and fumbling with his jacket buttons one-handed when he realized Jonah had a female guest, Paulson made polite inquiries about the opera and offered to bring them refreshments.

  “No need, Paulson,” Jonah said as he took the candle and led Serena up the main stairs. “We’ll be in the study. Tell the groom not to unhitch the mare. I’ll be taking the lady home shortly.”

  Ordinarily when a lady visited Jonah’s town house this late in the evening, she’d be there for the next sennight. If Paulson was surprised that this one would not be staying, he gave no sign. But then, Jonah had hired him specifically for his deadpan expression.

  A closemouthed servant was a good thing. One with a closed face was priceless.

  Jonah squired Serena to his study, stirred up the fire, and lit the lamp.

  “May I?” He helped the lady off with her cloak and laid it across the back of one of the matched Sheraton chairs before his hearth. Lady Serena strolled around the room, taking in the burled oak desk and ornately carved chair. She lingered by the bookshelves, running a fingertip over the spines as she checked the titles.

  “Scott, Voltaire, Shakespeare—this is a good collection,” she said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Your reputation is that of a man of action. Your library suggests a more contemplative soul.”

  “Perhaps you’ll allow it’s possible to be both.” Even so, he tried to contemplate as little as he could to avoid being sucked back into his less-than-wholesome past. A book was a diversion, an escape from unsettled ghosts. “The humidor is to the right of the desk.”

  It was a freestanding piece made of rich Brazilian rosewood, as refined a bit of joinery as he possessed. The interior was lined with cedar and held several trays to house his collection of fine smokes.

  “It’s quite lovely.” She stroked the pyramidal top. It occurred to him that the lady was the tactile sort. She’d smoothed her fingertips along the fine merino lapels of his topcoat when he’d draped it over her shoulders outside the opera house. Now she was touching his books, his humidor. If she was as sensual a creature as she seemed, it would make the job of seducing her that much easier.

  And far more pleasurable.

  “In fact, your entire home is very pleasant,” she said as she opened the humidor. The aromatic scent of fine tobacco wafted from the box and filled the small room.

  “Again, you sound surprised. Did you think I lived in a cave?”

  “No, it’s just not…well, to be honest, you have the reputation of being something of a libertine. But this home doesn’t speak of excess.”

  “Too Spartan for you?”

  “No, too calm for you, I would have thought.” Her lips twitched in amusement. “Any man who can cover an escape with Orange Fool doesn’t seem the sort to be at home with such serenity.”

  “I’m gratified to have provided you with a mystery.”

  “Oh, I hate mysteries. They torment me until I can winkle them out.”

  “Good,” he said with a grin. “You shall have to spend more time with me then. I look forward to having you uncover my secrets and unravel me completely.”

  Her eyes flared a bit at that. He’d meant it to sound vaguely naughty. The fact that she realized it meant her thoughts were traveling down the same road as his.

  “Remove your gloves, Serena.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “If you handle a cigar with those white gloves, you’ll find them hopelessly stained when you’re through,” he said. “Allow me.”


  He took one of her hands and turned her wrist up. Her elbow-length gloves were cinched tight at her wrists with a couple of seed pearl buttons. He undid them now, making sure to allow the pad of his thumb to stroke her exposed skin. Then he brought her wrist to his lips and pressed a lover’s kiss on her pulse point. Her heart was fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. One finger at a time, he tugged at the glove, finally pulling the silk slowly over her skin.

  Judging from the hitching rise and fall of her breasts, he was making her nervous. Or aroused. He’d settle for either.

  “I can do the other one now.” She stepped back a pace to put some distance between them, fiddled with the buttons, and removed her second glove.

  “Speaking of time,” she said, though they hadn’t been, “how long will this take?” She picked up one of the Havanas and brought it to her nose for a whiff, refusing to look at him.

  He crossed over to the small liquor cabinet and poured two snifters of brandy. “To truly enjoy a cigar takes about an hour.”

  “So long?”

  “It’s a complicated process.” He handed her a brandy and took the cigar from her. “First the cigar needs to be cut properly. Then lit and then—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all quite fascinating. Since I only intend to do this once, I don’t need to know all the details. Would you light it for me please?”

  He shrugged. “You’re missing out on the full experience.”

  “That’s all right. You see, what I really want to know is…what do gentlemen talk about while they’re smoking their cigars?”

  “This and that. It depends on the company.”

  “Politics?”

  “Not as often as you might think. Even Members of Parliament prefer to confine their political wrangling to the well of the House when there’s a good Havana to be had.”

  “How about religion?”

  He chuckled until he realized she was serious. “It hardly ever comes up.”

  “Then what do gentlemen discuss?”

  “Racing outcomes. Gaming news. Business ventures they are considering or seeking a partner for. Whether a new shipment of cigars has come in.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders sagged.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Yes. When ladies gather together, sooner or later the conversation always seems to turn to gentlemen. Don’t men ever talk about women?”

  “Quite often.” Jonah bent to light a cedar spill on the fire. He used the long taper of wood to preheat the foot of the cigar, careful not to touch it with the flame. Then he tucked the cigar between his teeth, drawing in slightly as he continued to hold the flame near the tip.

  “What do gentlemen say?”

  “About what?”

  “About women?”

  “In a moment. This is a critical juncture.” If he didn’t light the cigar evenly, it would taste bitter. Since he wanted this to be a pleasant experience for her, it was important to get this right. He rolled and drew air through the Havana till the tip glowed. Then he blew a neat smoke ring into the center of the room. “There you are.”

  “Is that one mine?”

  “If you like. Now have a seat and hold it like so.” He showed her how to balance it between her thumb and forefinger. Fortunately, the distraction spared him from answering her question about what men had to say about the ladies in their lives. Most gentlemen of his acquaintance were circumspect about their amours, but a few felt the need to boast, often with details that would have curled the hair of the lady involved. “If you wish, you can dip the end in your brandy before taking a draw. Most smokers appreciate the combination of spirits and tobacco.”

  She held the cigar out and gave it a squint-eyed gaze. Then she touched the end to the surface of her brandy and brought it to her mouth. At the last moment, she stopped.

  “You were going to tell me what gentlemen say about ladies while they’re smoking their cigars?” Then she slipped the end of the cigar into her pink bow of a mouth.

  Jonah was unprepared for the sudden rush of blood to his groin. There was something decidedly erotic about a beautiful woman with a thick Havana between her lips. But before he could answer her question or, more importantly, explain how to draw the smoke in and hold it in her mouth without inhaling, a knock came at the door.

  She quickly handed the cigar back to him.

  She might be unconventional, but she wasn’t ready to be seen as such by anyone but him. The knowledge was oddly endearing. He enjoyed sharing her secrets.

  “Come,” Jonah said.

  The door opened slightly and Paulson stood at the threshold. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but there’s a runner here for you.”

  “Take the message.”

  “The fellow is under orders not to give it to anyone but you. He claims he’ll wait until you’ve time to see him, even if it means he sleeps on the front steps all night.” Paulson dropped his voice to a whisper. “He says it has to do with a certain French incident. He seemed to think you’d know from that what it is about and who has sent him.”

  Maubeuge. Try as he might, Jonah couldn’t seem to leave that disastrous defeat behind. And neither could his friends, Warrington and Colton. Both were implicated in the scandal with him. They had also been similarly ensnared by the less than Honorable Fortescue Alcock to despoil other virgins who were being courted by the other royal dukes.

  “Very well. Thank you, Paulson. I’ll only be a moment,” he said to Serena. Then he gave her a wink and handed the cigar back to her without letting Paulson see it. “Try not to let it go out.”

  ***

  Drat! Just when he was about to tell her what gentlemen really talked about. Did they wax rhapsodic about a lady’s hair or the shape of her figure? Did they admire her fine manners or value her piano playing on a cold winter’s night? Had Jonah ever heard a man talk about a woman’s insights into his favorite author’s work?

  Just what did gentlemen think about the ladies in their lives?

  She’d long ago come to terms with the way of the world. Society decreed that she was unable to support herself. A wellborn lady could dabble in water colors, but not make a business of selling them. She might volunteer for charity work but could not toil for hire. A lady needed the protection of a good man or her life would shortly become untenable. But didn’t the dependency run both ways?

  Don’t they somehow need us as much as we do them?

  And not just for playing hostess or producing an heir.

  She eyed the glowing tip of the cigar, which was growing paler by the minute.

  “Try not to let it go out,” Jonah had said.

  As if she couldn’t do such a simple thing. Remembering the way Jonah had drawn on the cigar and then produced a perfect smoke ring, she brought the cigar to her lips and inhaled.

  A coughing fit exploded from her lungs. Her body’s reaction was so violent, she nearly dropped both the cigar and the brandy.

  “How utterly vile!” This was worse than black coffee by several thousand degrees of magnitude.

  Drat. Jonah would think her a weak female, unable to rise to the occasion of a masculine pleasure.

  She put the cigar down, balancing it on the silver tray on his mantel. Its tip glowed at her, malevolent as a single red eye. How could she pretend to enjoy this miserable thing, and for a whole hour, no less?

  The burning tip began to fade again. If she let the dratted thing go out, Jonah would know she hadn’t had the courage to see this adventure through. He’d think her weak. Her father had always drilled into her that the world could tolerate many flaws, but weakness was not one of them.

  There was nothing else for it. As if it were a spoon filled with castor oil, she picked up the cigar, and, with shoulders squared, she brought it again to her mouth.

  ***

  The messenger was hunkered before the fire in the parlor, warming his hands before the cheery blaze.

  “State your business and be quick about it, man,” Jonah said. “I have a guest
I cannot keep waiting.”

  “This shouldn’t take long, sir.” The fellow straightened and turned around. There was something familiar about the man’s hooked nose and receding hairline.

  “I know you. Mr. Clyde, I believe. You’re in Lord Rhys Warrington’s employ, are you not?” Jonah was pleasantly surprised. He’d expected the runner to have come from Mr. Alcock with yet another ultimatum. He’d never believed in punishing the bearer of bad tidings, but he’d have been sorely tempted in that case.

  “Yes, I’ve been with his lordship for many years,” the man said, twisting his cap in his hands. “I’m gratified that you remember me, sir.”

  “Ordinarily I would ask how my friend fares, but I do have a pressing matter I’m attending to at the moment,” Jonah said. “What message have you for me?”

  Mr. Clyde’s eyes slid up and to the right as if the message might be found hovering there above his head. “Lord Rhys asks will you join him and Nathaniel Colton at the Blind Pony in Whitechapel two days hence at ten o’clock in the evening?”

  “Why?” Jonah wasn’t afraid to walk any street in the city, but some environs led to violence more quickly than others. Just because he was more than capable of defending himself didn’t mean he relished doing it.

  “Lord Rhys has information concerning a person who has agreed to testify as to your innocence in the matter of Maubeuge.”

  “That’s excellent news.”

  “Yes, it is, but not all is well.” Mr. Clyde’s woeful expression reminded Jonah of a basset hound. “The man is no longer in London and the three of you must agree on a plan to find him.”

  Jonah paced the length of the small space in a few quick strides. If they could secure this witness and clear their names once and for all, perhaps he wouldn’t have to ruin Serena Osbourne. He hoped he wouldn’t.

  Not that he didn’t want to bed her. That wasn’t in the least dispute. But if he spoiled her reputation, he’d destroy her spirit and that was becoming a thoroughly repugnant prospect. He found her a delightful oddity among young ladies. She deserved to be celebrated, not shamed. Jonah turned back to his friend’s servant.