The beleaguered Lord Bourne

by Kasey Michaels

  “Listen!” Kit whispered, his soft breath tickling his wife’s ear.

  Reveling in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking, Jennie arched her throat so as to ease his access and questioned softly, “To what? I don’t hear anything.”

  “Precisely, my love,” Kit chuckled, raising himself on one elbow and playfully tickling Jennie’s cheek with one of her golden curls. “No interfering Bundys, no birthing tweenies—just sweet, blessed silence. Even Lord Clive has consented to leave us alone. Perhaps people are at last giving the new Earl of Bourne some of the respect his lofty station entitles him to.”

  Jennie sat up straight in the bed, her movement toppling Kit from his position and landing him flat on his back. Clutching the covers to her breast, Jennie asked, “Lord Clive? I’ve never heard of the man. Who is he? Why would he bother us?”

  “I knew it was too good to last,” Kit muttered ruefully, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Me and my big mouth. You’d think I would have learned better than to speak my mind around you, my adorable busybody.” Kit lifted himself up to plant a kiss on his wife’s nose, robbing his words of any sting, but not diminishing her curiosity by so much as a single hair.

  “Who is Lord Clive?” she persisted, holding the bedclothes tightly about her as, once her passion had been satisfied, her modesty in front of her new husband came bounding back full force.

  “Right,” the earl said, adjusting his pillow behind him and lying back against the headboard. “First things first. First Lord Clive, and then—” he smiled wickedly, waggling his eyebrows at her “—the seduction. Ah, kitten, you blush so delightfully.”

  Lord Clive, Kit told his wife while helping her plump up her pillow next to his, or, to be more precise, Robert Clive, Baron Clive of Plassey, was the man England recognized to be the founder of the empire of British India. After distinguishing himself in battle against the French, he had eventually been made governor and commander in chief of Bengal. But when ill health had forced him to retire and return to England, his enemies had accused him of using his offices in India to line his own pockets. Parliament had impeached him, and although he had eventually been acquitted, his illness, added to his feelings of disgrace (and a rather sad addiction to opium), took their toll, and the baron had committed suicide in his home at number forty-five, Berkeley Square.

  “And now his ghost is said to haunt the garden in the center of the square,” Kit ended, pleased at the way his little tale had served to bring Jennie back into his arms, where she shivered deliciously at the thought of a ghost wandering about among the plane trees and flowering shrubs that filled the center garden.

  “Is he an angry ghost?” she questioned, her green eyes wide.

  Kit placed a kiss on her curls. “No, kitten—not that I know of, anyway. I would imagine he is a sorrowful ghost; wandering about wringing his hands—trying to reclaim his lost honor.”

  “How terribly sad!” said Jennie sorrowfully. “Someone should do something about it. Try to vindicate him, or something.”

  Seeing the light in his wife’s eyes, Kit knew he had to distract her, head her off as it were, before she could build up a full head of steam, or else there was no knowing what maggoty idea she would take into her head as she set about wiping the smut off Lord Clive’s escutcheon. It wasn’t as if he didn’t pity the man, but heaven knew he had enough to deal with riding herd on Jennie’s living projects, without trying to compete with a dead one.

  “Well, puss,” was all he said, sighing dramatically, “it is common knowledge that people will do very strange things for money. You should know, seeing as how you rode roughshod over your gambling partners tonight in order to gather in a tidy little fortune for yourself.”

  He had her attention now. “What fortune?” she asked, startled into sitting up again, this time without bothering to drape the covers about her bare upper body. “You said we were playing for tame stakes. And I only used one color chip—they were such a lovely shade of blue, you know.”

  “Those lovely blue chips were worth more than any other chip on the table, kitten.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “How much were they worth, Kit?” she asked, a bit of steel creeping into her voice.

  “Twenty pounds apiece,” he answered her lightly, crossing his hands over his face as he pretended to duck out of the way of her soon to be swinging fists.

  But Jennie sat stock-still, mentally remembering how she had blithely thrown one bluechip after another, betting recklessly and then laughing in delight as the pile of pretty blue chips in front of her grew into a multitude. “How much did I win, my lord?” she asked, shutting her eyes tightly against his answer.

  “Er…I…er…w-e-l-l-l…er…” Kit strangled, reluctant to say the words. But when Jennie held up her small clenched hand to within an inch of his nose and repeated her question he blurted out rather loudly, “Five thousand pounds.”

  “Five thousand pounds!” Jennie squeaked unbelievingly.

  “Give or take a pound,” Kit said and shrugged, trying hard not to show his amusement at her bewildered expression.

  Jennie fell back heavily against her pillow, muttering over and over, “Five thousand pounds. Oh my Lord, five thousand pounds! Whatever will I do with such a vast sum?”

  Rolling onto his side, the better to slip an arm around her slim waist, Kit crooned, “You could always use it to hire a ship to send all your little lost lambs across the sea.”

  His words snapped her out of her small spasm. “Of course!” she exclaimed, sitting up once more as Kit examined his now-empty right arm and muttered something unmentionable under his breath. Him and his big, flapping mouth. Never talk to a woman when she’s between the sheets, old son, he berated himself, else you’ll end up being jolted around like a jack-in-the-box without a moment of pleasure to show for the jostling. Maneuvering himself upright again he began kneading Jennie’s shoulders as he dropped nibbling kisses along the length of her neck, trying to bring her attention back to a more romantic topic.

  “The money was gained from gambling,” Jennie told him as his lips traveled to her left shoulder before blazing a trail down her spine. “Therefore, it should be used for good—to benefit mankind in some way. Don’t you see it, Kit?” she asked, twisting in his grasp in order to face him. “Our servants are all well to grass, living as they do under our protection. But there are so many, many more living in squalor all over London. This money should be for them!”

  Nuzzling Jennie’s back provided sufficient stirring of Lord Bourne’s hot, young blood to have him agreeing to house every London derelict under his roof. “Of course, kitten,” he agreed, pulling her closer so that his lips could find the soft curve of her breast. “Anything you say, my love,” he sighed, moving his head so that his searching mouth could narrow in on its delicious target. “Anything,” he promised hoarsely, before the need for any more words was forgotten entirely and quiet ruled the night once more.

  THE EARL AND COUNTESS of Bourne woke the next morning at nine to refuse Goldie’s offer of morning chocolate, and then spent the next hour satisfying quite another appetite before Kit remembered an appointment with his man of business and left Jennie to snuggle down beneath the sheets and go back to sleep. And so it was almost noon when the countess strolled into the drawing room and stood staring at a particularly unlovely vase with a look of utter rapture.

  She went into luncheon when Renfrew requested it of her, but after watching her play with the food on her plate for several minutes Ben deftly snatched it from in front of her before it became entirely inedible. It was one thing, he told his fellow footmen, to eat up all the leftovers, but he’d be switched if he’d stand by idly and watch Montague’s creations be turned into a whopping great mess of gray something or other by some love-struck ninny who couldn’t be trusted to know a wax bean from a wax candle.

  Still comfortably serene within her cocoon of happiness—for Kit had just that morning told her he actually believed he had fallen i
n love with her—Jennie wasn’t even slightly put out when Ben entered the drawing room to inform her that Mr. Ives, that “queer fish,” was asking to see her. “Send him in, Ben,” she said serenely, “and Ben, try not to judge others so harshly. We are all God’s children, remember. Show a little charity, hmmm?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ben returned sagely. “But iffen ya don’t mind, Oi’ll be keepin’ m’blubber shut ’n’ m’charity ta m’self. That’s a cove would take yer eye-teeth, iffen ya catch m’drift, ma’am.”

  Mr. Ives spent the first five minutes of his call in the usual mundane chatter about the weather and how well his hostess was looking in her new jonquil morning gown—which served to remind Jennie of her former opinion of the man as being a crushing bore. Oh well, she thought, resigning herself to at least another quarter hour of insipid talk, perhaps the poor man is lonely and in need of company.

  Dean could see by the glazed expressionlessness of Jennie’s eyes that he was losing her, and he decided to move directly to the point of his visit. “I was witness to your great run of luck last evening, my lady. After deciding to call today and congratulate you on your success I wondered if I’d find you at home or if you were already out dashing about the town spending your winnings.”

  If he had wanted her undivided attention he had succeeded. Sitting up very straight in her chair, Jennie informed him coldly, “I think that is excessively bad of you, my good sir. While my time spent at table last night was, I freely admit, the greatest good fun, I am not the least bit pleased to be saddled with all this ill-gotten booty. After all, it is not as if I have the slightest need for it.”

  The victim of this impassioned attack merely sat back comfortably in his own chair and smiled. “I thought as much, ma’am, but I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be putting my foot in it to speak my mind on the subject.” Seeing the spark of interest in her eyes, he wondered silently just how much of a bag of moonshine she could be made to swallow. “It would sadden you to know, Jennie—may I call you Jennie, seeing as how I feel I know you so well?—that there are an astounding number of homeless children in London, living a hand-to-mouth existence that would bring tears to the eyes of the strongest man. I most abominate speaking of such things to a lady, but I feel in my heart that you are sympathetic to the plight of these poor innocents.” He had her now, he congratulated himself happily, for the moment contenting himself by heaving a sorrowful sigh and allowing a mask of sorrow to settle over his handsome features.

  “Indeed, yes, Mr. Ives!” Jennie agreed eagerly. “As a matter of fact, Lord Bourne and I have already decided that giving my winnings to charity would be a praiseworthy resolution to the problem. But tell me, how is it you are interested? It pains me to say this, but I had not thought of you in such a light…. Oh, forgive me,” she begged earnestly at his stricken look, “that was very, very wicked of me.”

  He waved her apology away. “No, no, Jennie, you have every right to question me. I know I resemble any other gentleman of the ton racketing about town, seemingly without a single worthwhile thought to my name. But, I tell you honestly, I can no longer keep up the charade. I have run through my patrimony trying to help homeless orphans, and am even now deep in debt due to my softheartedness, but it would never do to let my friends know of my plight. It is only now, speaking here with you, dear lady, that I feel free to open my soul about my secret activities.”

  “I never would have thought…never mind,” Jennie amended hastily. “Mr. Ives—Dean—it would be my greatest pleasure to contribute to your worthy cause. I won over five thousand pounds, you know, and that should go a long way toward easing the plight of those pitiful little creatures. I do intend to set aside five hundred pounds that I have decided to invest for my tweeny and her young son.”

  Mr. Ives manfully hid his distress at this news and plunged full force into his description of the house he had set up to care for thirty orphans he had personally taken under his wing. By the time he finished, Jennie was more than agreeable to driving out with him immediately to see the little angels for herself. Kit had put forth his low opinion of Mr. Ives, she knew, but that was before the man had shown her this other side of himself. Once Kit knew the truth he would see why she was so eager to go with the man now, her winnings tucked safely in her reticule. Her tender heart felt dreadful about misjudging the man, and, in typical Jennie fashion, she overreacted by giving him her complete trust.

  Within moments they were on their way in Mr. Ives’s hired carriage, Jennie asking questions as quickly as they popped into her head—wanting to know the names and ages of the children she was about to meet, and if the women who ran the orphanage were careful about the regular use of soap and the absolute necessity for vegetables in a growing child’s diet. She would have gone on, but as the scenery outside the carriage grew increasingly depressing and squalid she stopped talking and only stared, compassion wringing at her tender heartstrings.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, BOB,” Lucy chirped happily, stepping inside as the footman opened the wide door of the mansion in Berkeley Square. “Is my cousin not ready yet? Do tell her to hurry, for, as my aunt made sure to remind me as I alit from the carriage, it would not do to let my papa’s horses stand about in the breeze.”

  “Her ladyship ain’t ’ere,” Bob informed her, still engaged in a silent struggle to relieve Miss Gladwin of the glove she held tightly in her left hand “’ere now, give over, miss. Oi’ll be givin’ ’em back when yer off, promise. Ben’ll ’ave m’bum fer a ’itchin’ post iffen ’e sees Oi ain’t doin’ right by ya. It’s yer famble cheats wot Oi’m apposed to lift, an’ liftin’ ’em’s jist wot Oi’m affixin’ ta do.”

  Lucy accepted Bob’s explanation, hastily stripping off her left glove and handing the pair to him, asking worriedly, “What do you mean, Lady Bourne isn’t here? We made arrangements to drive out together this afternoon in the Promenade. I have it on the best authority that Lord Thorpe will—never mind that. Where did she say she was going? When did she leave?” By now Lucy was sitting on the settee in the drawing room, her papa’s prime bits of blood forgotten, and Bob, clutching the coveted famble cheats to his bosom, was staring down at her, his head awhirl with trying to remember all her questions. Dealing with the quality, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, was no lark in the park.

  “Oi ken answer ya that, missy,” Ben offered, sauntering into the room as if he belonged there. “’er ladyship lopped off inna bankrupt cart wot that queer nabs Ives called up fer. Not wot Oi didn’t caution ’er not ta go prancin’ ’round town with the cove, ya, mind. Gone since just past noon, they be, an’ nary ’ide nor ’air of ’er since. Missus is a saint, missy, but there be times Oi doesn’t wonder wot iffen she ain’t awful ta let in ’er upper rooms, no offense meant, y’know.”

  Wrinkling her brow as she tried to puzzle out Ben’s words, Lucy at last said, “She went out for a drive with Mr. Ives at noon in a—what was that you called it?”

  “Bankrupt cart, missy,” Ben repeated kindly. “Mr. Ives went an’ ’ired ’imself one of them one-’orse chaises the cits keep fer Sundays so as ta put on ’oity-toity airs fer the neighbors.”

  Lucy nodded her head in understanding. “All right,” she said, considering the evidence. “Lady Bourne decided to ride out with Mr. Ives, heaven only knows why, as I for one certainly do not. But they should have returned here long ago. Perhaps an accident?” she suggested, looking up at Ben for guidance.

  “Or worse,” returned the footman, recalling the tingling feeling he got at the back of his neck every time Mr. Ives was present. “Goldie tol’ me as ’ow she fetched missus ’er winnin’s afore she lopped off. Oi been askin’ m’self wot a body wit five thousand pounds in ’er boung would be doin’ ridin’ inna bankrupt cart. Seems havey-cavey ta me, miss.”

  “I should say so!” exclaimed Miss Gladwin, rising to her feet and beginning to pace the carpet. “Now, Ben,” she said severely, whirling to face the diminutive footman, “
I want you to tell me everything—about the money, Mr. Ives, the whole of it. And in the very best English you can muster, please, Ben, as I think Lady Bourne may be in some kind of trouble. I’m counting on you, Ben; don’t fail me!”

  More than a quarter hour of valuable time was spent in listening to and then deciphering Ben’s tale of what had gone on during Dean Ives’s visit that morning, what with the agitated servant interrupting himself over and over to give Lucy a few pithy (and none too kind) interpretations of his own regarding Mr. Ives’s character, disposition, and probable parents, as well as a few other breaks in his monologue during which time he roundly berated himself for not noshing that slimy cove on his noggin and putting an end to it before the missus could go off with him in the first place. But at last Lucy understood, and she immediately sent her papa’s carriage, with Renfrew riding inside, off on a round of the clubs in an effort to find Kit.

  Renfrew ran his master to ground at Watier’s, and the earl, with Mr. Norwood in tow acting as interested observer, made short work of driving back to Berkeley Square. “Is she back yet?” an agitated Kit asked anxiously as he bounded into the drawing room, his eyes searching for Jennie. Although the trip from Watier’s was not a long one, Kit had already been through several kinds of hell imagining what could have happened to his darling wife.

  “She is not,” intoned a gravely solemn Miss Bundy, who, in company with Lucy and her Aunt Rachel, had been making great inroads on picturing Jennie in all manner of dire predicaments. “How dare that child tease me to death like this? I vow I feel like an afflicted parent, destined to spend the remainder of my days watching my head turn gray because of the viper I have nurtured at my bosom.” Only Miss Bundy’s sorrowful tone and very obvious distress kept Kit from telling the woman to stifle herself before he did her an injury.