Between a Rake and a Hard Place

by Connie Mason

  He tried to walk quietly, even with Serena’s weight in his arms. Jonah could have moved stealthily through a forest without a sound, but several of the floor boards in the long corridor creaked when he stepped on them. If there were any light sleepers on this hall, they’d hear his approach.

  He was relieved once he managed to open Serena’s door and close it softly behind them. No one else needed to know she was properly foxed. He laid her down on the big bed and drew the coverlet over her.

  “Thank you.” Her words were so soft, he had to lean down to hear them. She snuggled deeper into the bedclothes, tucking them under her chin. “You’re a good man, Jonah Sharp. If I had an ounce of sense, I’d love you forever.”

  The next thing he heard was a small, very ladylike snore.

  He straightened immediately. Love? There wasn’t supposed to be any of that. Must be the claret talking.

  Besides, he knew better than anyone that he wasn’t a good man.

  But perhaps it wasn’t unusual that she should be entertaining warm feelings for him. They’d spent a good deal of time together over the last few days. The proximity had affected him too. He couldn’t deny that he felt something when he looked down at her.

  It wasn’t lust. He had no desire to bed her if she wasn’t going to be a willing participant. Drunk sex was never as intense as when both parties were in full possession of themselves.

  It wasn’t guilt. Not this time. He hadn’t gotten her into this sorry state, but he felt more than a little satisfaction over getting her out of it. He’d stay with her now and watch her sleep, just to make sure she was all right. Her head would feel like a cannon shot had gone off next to it in the morning, but if that was the worst she suffered for her overindulgence, perhaps it was worth it for her to be able to cross another item off that pernicious list of hers.

  After all, she was doing it on account of her mother.

  He shook his head and went to sit in one of the chairs before her fireplace. He didn’t know which was more ridiculous—a lady who insisted on breaking all the rules or him being cast in the role of guardian angel.

  But that still didn’t settle the question of what was behind the strange glowing lump in his chest. It plagued him every time he was in the same room with Serena Osbourne.

  His ears pricked to a soft tread and the occasional creak of the hall floorboards. When Serena’s door swung open, he went still as a stone, satisfied that he was probably hidden in shadow. The fire in the grate cast enough wavering light into the room to show him Miss Braithwaite stealing close to Serena’s bed.

  She leaned over and sniffed. There was no mistaking the alcoholic fug hanging about the slumbering form.

  “Oh, child,” the governess whispered as she settled a hip on Serena’s bed, obviously intending to stay a while. “What on earth did you get into?”

  “It’s more a question of what got into her,” Jonah said softly, deciding he’d fare better if he announced his presence now rather than let her discover him there later. “Which as nearly as I can figure was a bottle and a half of the ’90 claret.”

  At first, Miss Braithwaite startled at the sound of his voice. Then she rose from the bed and advanced on him, her stiff-legged gait reminding him of a guard dog with its ruff up.

  “How dare you, sir,” she whispered furiously. “What are you doing here?” She held up a hand to forestall his reply. “Never mind. It doesn’t signify. Get out.”

  Jonah rose. “Someone needs to stay with her till she wakes.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be you. Have you any idea what the marquis will do to you when he hears that you got his daughter thoroughly intoxicated?” She marched up and poked a finger at his chest. “It doesn’t bear thinking of, young man. You will kindly quit this house first thing in the morning or I shall be forced to inform Lady Serena’s father of this…this thoughtless abuse of his hospitality.”

  Damn. That’ll put a kink in Alcock’s plans.

  “What are you waiting for? Someone else to find you here as well?” She was trembling with rage. “If you have the slightest care for Lady Serena, you will go away. And I mean now.”

  Jonah cast one last glance at Serena, who was so deeply in the arms of Morpheus she likely wouldn’t have wakened if Miss Braithwaite had been shouting at him instead of hissing like a rabid cat. Then he skewered the governess with a steely gaze.

  “Don’t leave her till she’s sensible again.” He started for the door. “Which in her case may be several years.”

  ***

  “All in all,” Serena muttered as she pulled on her stockings, “overindulging in a manly drink was a worse experience than smoking a cigar.”

  She wiggled her toes experimentally. Even her feet hurt.

  At least after the smoking episode, she’d felt marginally better once she’d been sick. She hadn’t become ill over the claret, just incredibly fuzzy about things and afraid her head was likely to detach itself from her shoulders and roll across the floor.

  Perhaps it would be a mercy if it did.

  When the long case clock had chimed four o’clock in the morning, Amelia had become worried because Serena hadn’t stirred so much as an eyelash. She’d rung for a stout pot of coffee, a rack of toast, and proceeded to try to rouse Serena from her claret-induced oblivion.

  After being shaken awake and plied with several cups of sugar- and cream-laced coffee, Serena was conscious enough to understand that Amelia was quietly livid with her because Jonah had been in her chamber.

  “No, of course I didn’t invite him,” Serena protested. At least, she didn’t think she had. She vaguely remembered seeing him in the parlor, and she’d discovered one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs in the pocket of her wrapper. Someone had used it and she doubted it was Jonah since she still had the foul thing.

  “A gentleman does not generally enter a lady’s bedchamber unless he’s sure of his welcome,” Amelia said, entirely too loudly.

  Every sound was like a bass drum in Serena’s ears.

  “I was in no condition to welcome anyone. The point is,” she said, trying to keep her voice quiet and even so as not to disturb the uneasy equilibrium her shoulders had reached with her neck, “you say you found him simply sitting in one of the chairs. That doesn’t sound as if he were trying to take advantage of my diminished capacity.”

  In truth, she’d been in more danger of succumbing to Jonah without an ounce of liquor in her system back in that hunting lodge, but Amelia didn’t need to know that.

  “Still, it could have been ruinous if anyone but I had found him here,” Amelia said.

  She tried to push another piece of toast into Serena’s hand. For the last five hours, she’d been cajoling and begging Serena to eat in order to sop up some of the claret in her stomach. Serena choked down a single bite and put the toast back down.

  “If I let something happen to you,” Amelia said, wringing her hands, “your father would never forgive me.”

  “But isn’t that what life is about?” Serena gave up and nibbled at the toast once more. “Things happening to me. You can’t stop it. Why would you want to?”

  “Serena, you’re being purposely obtuse. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  Amelia crossed the room and threw back the curtains—out of spite, Serena figured—to let the morning sun stream in.

  She covered her eyes with both hands.

  “Where are my tinted spectacles?” she whimpered. Serena hoped the blue lenses would take the edge off the bright light.

  “In the second drawer of the highboy,” Amelia said unhelpfully.

  “Will you please get them for me?”

  “No,” Amelia said waspishly. “If you insist on having things happen to you, who am I to stop you from enjoying the full experience?”

  Serena shaded her eyes with her hand and walked, stoop-shouldered as an octogenarian, across the room to the tall chest. Eyes closed, she felt her way up the piece of furniture to the second drawer and located her t
inted glasses. They didn’t change her vision, but viewing the world through the cool blue was a relief. Once she propped them on her nose, she held out marginal hope that she’d live till lunchtime.

  Amelia straightened the bedclothes so Serena wouldn’t be tempted to crawl back into the bed. “At least we don’t have to worry about Sir Jonah Sharp any longer.”

  “Why, pray tell, is that?”

  “Because I ordered him to leave the house this morning. I expect he’s gone by now.”

  “You what? Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because someone needs to protect you from a rake like that.”

  “He may have the reputation of a rake, but he has acquitted himself like a gentleman with me.” She worried the lace on the hem of her night rail and managed to start it raveling. Starting with his brother, Jonah had a long history of accepting the blame and consequences for other people’s bad deeds. “I won’t make Jonah my scapegoat. He had nothing to do with the claret. I decided to drink it on my own.”

  “On the list, was it?”

  Serena nodded.

  “Oh, that stupid list. I never should have encouraged you about it. Honestly, Serena, why are you jeopardizing your entire future for a few moments of foolishness today?”

  “Which is more foolish—to dare to try new things or to sit on the sidelines and watch life pass one by without living it as you do?”

  Amelia flinched and Serena felt a momentary pang for having wounded her. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that circumstances had given her so few choices. Even if Serena’s exploits were uncovered, she knew she was somewhat insulated from her unconventional experiments by virtue of her wealth and station. She might be passed over by the Duke of Kent. She might lose a few invitations to a few balls, but she’d still be a marquis’s daughter, with all the wealth and privileges attending that rank.

  Society would censure someone of Amelia’s standing heavily for the same missteps. If a governess were discovered dead drunk with a man in her room, she’d likely be given the sack and turned onto the street without character.

  “You still had no right to order Jonah to leave,” Serena said in a softer tone, in an effort to both be more conciliatory and keep her head from imploding.

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, dear,” Amelia said. “And the way you look at him. No good can come of it. Someone has to protect you from yourself.”

  “No, someone needs to protect me from you.” Even though her head still banged like a smith’s hammer, Serena stomped across the room to confront her old friend. “You had no right to send Sir Jonah away. He’s my father’s guest, not yours. And in the marquis’s absence, this is my house. I decide when someone has outstayed their welcome. Not you.”

  Amelia lowered her gaze and looked so remorseful Serena felt a stab of guilt for scolding her. Usually when they wrangled about something, the rebukes went the other way around.

  She wondered if Amelia had ever felt guilty for dressing her down. She wouldn’t have thought so, but theirs was a complicated relationship. Less than a parent and child, but far more than a governess and her charge. The love Serena and her old friend felt for each other always clouded the issue whenever they butted heads, which thankfully wasn’t often.

  “I apologize, my lady,” Amelia said, using Serena’s title as both weapon and shield, a subtle reminder that they could never have a truly fair fight.

  “And I’ll accept it,” Serena said as she headed for the door, “as soon as I find Sir Jonah and convince him to return to Wyndebourne.”

  Thirteen

  Excitement is building for the upcoming Season and its ubiquitous marriage mart. However, by rights, civilized people ought to decry this rampant, mercenary practice of pairing similarly situated couples and uniting them in holy matrimony, whether any true love match exists or not.

  But marriage-minded mamas argue, by what criterion shall we base such an important decision if not suitability of rank and wealth? Such commonality suggests common interests and indeed common affection would surely follow.

  Since the Flood, like pairs with like and folk have been going through this world two by two. Who are we to argue with such precedent?

  From Le Dernier Mot,

  The Final Word on News That Everyone

  Who Is Anyone Should Know

  At the top of the rise, Jonah reined in Turk so he could look down at Portsmouth. Morning fog still swathed most of the docks in a thick gray blanket, with only the tallest crow’s nests peeping from the mists. But the rest of town showed signs of waking. The night soil wagon rumbled through narrow streets accepting pungent offerings, followed by the milk and egg man dropping off the household orders. Fishmongers and grocers wheeled handcarts to their corners and set up shop for the day. A faint bit of the singsong patter they used to entice customers echoed up to Jonah in disjointed words and phrases.

  When reconnoitering a new place or trying to run someone to ground, Jonah often made use of two equally informative yet vastly different sources of intelligence—the local pub and the parish church. The pubs wouldn’t be serving customers for some time since most folk were just now sitting down to breakfast, but the church doors were always open.

  Luckily for Jonah, the vicar was the gregarious sort who loved to talk about his parishioners. The gentle reverend was also willing to share a frugal breakfast of bread and milk with a curious traveler in the manse’s kitchen.

  “You say the man’s name is Leatherby, eh?” The man of God tapped his temple. “Seems vaguely familiar, but to be honest, my memory is not what it used to be. But if I baptized a babe, married a couple, or buried someone, it’ll be recorded in our church rolls.”

  He disappeared to his private study and returned to the kitchen with a doorstop-sized ledger in tow. “There you have it, my good man,” he said. “The life of the parish since 1800 all in one place. If we need to go back further than that, I’ll have to find my predecessor’s book.”

  “I expect this will do,” Jonah said as he leafed through the stiff pages. He’d told the vicar that he was trying to find Leatherby because his military service had earned him a commendation which had yet to be awarded. “Sergeant Leatherby is likely older than I so he won’t be listed in the births section. If he’s in here, I suspect it’ll be in the marriage listings.”

  The vicar reached across the table and thumbed over to the correct section of the massive book. There, in a neat round script, were the names and dates of all the couples who’d vowed to forsake all others and cleave only to each other till death did them part.

  The listings went on and on, page after page.

  It never ceased to amaze Jonah that so many people were willing to take on responsibility for another soul for their entire life. The record length for his relationships with the fair sex was barely a fortnight.

  “There it is.” The reverend, who appeared to be gifted with the ability to read upside down, pointed a finger at a pair of names halfway down the column. “Hammond Barnabas Leatherby and Helen Smallshaw, wed 21 August, 1803.”

  “Is there any way to know where they live?”

  “Not from these records. And if they attend church here regularly, I confess I am not aware of it.” The vicar steepled his fingers before him. “And I so wanted to help you find the fellow so you can deliver that commendation. Our gallant military men deserve every honor.”

  Jonah felt a twinge of guilt over lying to a vicar, but since it was far and away not the worst thing he’d ever done, he figured his newly awakened conscience would give up needling him soon. “Since Leatherby was in the king’s service, I believe the couple may have lived separately for a good bit of their married life. Perhaps the missus receives parish assistance…”

  “She may. A good many wives of soldiers and sailors are little more than widows without the name. And just as poor, more’s the pity,” the vicar said, pausing to make a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. “But that would be in another ledger. If Helen Leath
erby is listed there, we should also have a place of residence recorded for her.”

  The vicar scurried away again.

  Jonah continued to glance through the pages of the parish records. “For better or worse, for richer, for poorer,” he mused. “I wonder how many of you got the short end of those sticks.”

  But for the first time in his life, he wondered if his name would ever appear in a parish record linked with a lady’s in holy matrimony like this. He doubted it. The marriage vows promised a love without conditions. One that didn’t buckle when health or fortune fled away. One that could last through anything.

  He doubted “anything” included the likes of him.

  Jonah was carrying so much deadweight, he could never expect a woman to shoulder half the load his soul carried.

  As he turned the page, a couple of names he recognized caught his eye.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  He stared at the indelible ink, thinking he’d misread the entry, but the names remained the same. Married, 5 June, 1815.

  “Well, that explains a lot,” he muttered.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re finding my ledger helpful,” the vicar said as he bustled back in and plopped down the parish benevolence rolls in front of Jonah. “Hopefully, this one will be too.”

  ***

  The sun was starting to set when Jonah caught his first glimpse of Wyndebourne again. His day in Portsmouth had been a disappointment. Helen Smallshaw Leatherby had moved from the ramshackle tenement the parish rolls had listed as her place of residence and none of her former neighbors knew where she’d gone. Jonah had soup in one pub and ale in another, but hadn’t been able to ferret out anyone who admitted to knowing Sergeant Leatherby.

  In midafternoon, he made a few purchases, replacing his stolen wrist studs and shaving kit. Warrington and Colton had better be taking good care of his horse pistol or he’d throttle the pair of them when he saw them next. He made a quick stop at a booksellers’ and then turned Turk’s head toward Wyndebourne once more.

  Somehow, he had to finagle an invitation back into the household. If he couldn’t find Leatherby on his own, it was more imperative than ever that he satisfy Mr. Alcock’s demands.