Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

by Julia Justiss

  ‘Well, you’re not my mama. And if you truly want to get on better, leave me alone.’ With that parting shot, Althea flounced up the stairs and stomped through the door.

  For a moment, Miss Neville stared after her. Turning to Greville, her cheeks scarlet with mortification, she said, ‘I am so sorry you had to witness that.’

  ‘I have noticed a certain…tension between you.’

  She gave a shaky laugh. ‘Indeed. She’s still very young…and for some reason I can’t puzzle out, resents me very deeply.’ An expression of sorrow washed over her face, mingled with hurt.

  His strong inclination was to make some light remark and put the uncomfortable interlude behind them. But as it had before, her sadness pierced his heart.

  After struggling a moment, failing to convince himself to let the matter drop, he said, ‘I spoke with Miss Althea at some length during our ride—for which, by the way, I did manage to take along a groom, so you may be easy about the matter of a chaperon.’

  ‘Thank you for looking out for her, Mr Anders.’ She gave a rueful chuckle. ‘I certainly could never have persuaded her to employ such a precaution.’

  ‘It’s not my place to intervene, but Miss Althea did share some reflections with me that I think you might wish to know.’

  The concern on Miss Neville’s face sharpened. ‘Please, do continue.’

  ‘Oh, nothing that would threaten her safety or reputation,’ he added hastily. ‘Rather, they shed light on her attitude towards you.’ Briefly he related how Althea had described what transpired during the time of her mother’s illness and death.

  At his revelations, Miss Neville looked appalled. ‘But we never intended…how could she have thought that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why do people perceive what they do? When one is labouring under extreme emotion, I imagine it’s easier to misconstrue. You might want to talk with her about it, although I’d appreciate your not mentioning why you came to do so. She did not expressly forbid me to repeat her remarks, but I’m sure she would feel betrayed if she learned I’d spoken to you about them.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll consider how I might broach the matter. I would like to end the antagonism between us. Not that I think she ever could—or should—be again the little girl who trailed after me adoringly, but this past year has reduced what was already a small family. We’ve always been close, and I miss that.’

  She reached over to press his hand, sending little eddies of delight up his arm. ‘How can I thank you enough? You’ve been a true friend—to both of us.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Neville. I wish you luck in your chat with her.’

  She nodded and he followed her in, the imprint of her touch still tingling. There was a pleasant warmth deep in his chest as well.

  He was glad now that he’d ignored his natural disinclination to discuss emotional matters and related what her cousin had revealed. Over this last year, he’d come to fully appreciate how important it was to have a caring family; but for his sister, he might at this moment still be languishing on board the Illustrious, or stranded penniless in some foreign port, left to heal under the care of indifferent strangers.

  Had Miss Neville so overcome her prejudice about his status that she now truly considered him a ‘friend’? That attitude would be a decided improvement over her initial disdain. Having a friendship with a woman would be a new experience for him. However much his randy body might prefer something more physical, since that wasn’t a possibility anyway, he decided he rather liked the feeling. There still wasn’t any future in the connection, of course, but perhaps while they both remained under one roof, he could cautiously explore the waters of this uncharted territory.

  Chapter Ten

  Two nights later, Amanda returned to her chamber from the kitchen after ensuring all was in train for the impromptu dinner she’d arranged for her neighbours and their guest Lord Trowbridge. As she pulled the bell to summon her maid, she thought again about Althea, who’d been scrupulously polite since her outburst. Though she’d also avoided all of Amanda’s gentle attempts to engage her in conversation, at least she seemed to have abandoned her efforts to sneak off with Mr Anders, either riding alone now or accepting the escort of a groom if he accompanied her.

  One worry set to rest, it seemed. As for the other…she’d observed George arriving home two of the last three early mornings, looking sober and dressed in plain, dusty clothing. Moving with a furtive air, he too had avoided speaking with her.

  Now virtually certain he must be somehow involved with the smugglers, she’d debated speaking with Papa. But he’d looked even more grey-faced and weary of late; she hated to add to his worries by voicing her suspicions.

  What she needed was for Mr Anders to express a desire to drive back into town, so she might ask him to enquire further about the matter with his contacts in the naval service.

  Struggling to loosen the ties of her afternoon gown, Amanda wondered where in heaven her maid had got to. She was about to ring again when Betsy came running in, red-cheeked.

  ‘So sorry, miss,’ she panted, going at once to the gown ties.

  ‘You’ve been out in the cold?’ Amanda guessed. ‘It’s a chill day for a walk.’

  To her surprise, the maid burst into tears. All Amanda could glean from her tangled speech was ‘sorry’ and ‘shouldn’t have gone’ and ‘so worried’.

  ‘There, there, now,’ she said, trying to soothe the distraught girl. ‘What happened to so distress you?’

  ‘Oh, miss, it’s such a tangle. My da, like most folks hereabouts—’ that said with defensive look ‘—he’s helped the Gentlemen upon occasion, and been happy for the coins and sometimes the jug of brandy that come with it. Never had no problem when Rob Roy was running things, but this last six months, a new man’s come in. Da heard he wouldn’t book no opposition, but as men like to talk, he never paid much mind. Then this morning, Jenkins come up to tell me my brother Billy, what’s a groom down at the stables, weren’t back after a…visit home last night. I’m sorry, Miss Amanda, I know it weren’t my half-day off, but I just had to go and check on him.’

  Dread a growing knot in her belly, Amanda replied, ‘Of course you did! What did you discover?’

  The girl shook her head, tears dripping down her cheeks. ‘Billy were home, all right—but he’d been beat within an inch of his life. He told Pa Black John got him, said Billy would help him—or nobody—and that if he caught him running goods for Rob Roy again, Billy wouldn’t live to tell the tale. Now Pa’s talking about calling up other farmers in the valley and some of the townspeople, saying it’s time to stop Black John once and for all.’

  She twisted her hands. ‘But, miss, how can they? Black John’s men got rifles and pistols, good ones. Pa and his friends will likely get themselves killed, and then who will take care of Ma and the little ones? They can’t go to the preventatives for help, not when they’ve all of them been involved in free-trading. I left Ma weeping and Pa cleaning his old army musket and Billy abed, still half out of his senses.’

  Heavens, it appeared matters were even worse than Amanda had feared! ‘Yes, something must be done,’ she said soothingly. ‘But surely your father knows a confrontation will lead to certain bloodshed.’

  ‘Already been bloodshed, Da says. Billy and some others been beaten, and Farmer Johnson was shot dead, not long ago.’

  ‘Someone needs to persuade them to avoid a pitched battle they would surely lose. Perhaps my father—’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t tell Lord Bronning, miss! He’s such an honourable gentleman, he’d probably feel he had to call out the riding officers. Billy and Da and all the rest could be arrested for moving smuggled goods, or transported, or worse!’

  ‘You know my father would never involve the authorities in a way that would bring harm to people he’s known all his life,’ Amanda objected.

  ‘He might not want to, but it could turn out that way. Please, mistress, promise you won’t tell your papa.’

&
nbsp; ‘Very well, I won’t…yet, anyway, while I try to think of something else.’ Damping down the fear curdling in her stomach, she tried to ask casually, ‘Is Master George involved?’

  Betsy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, miss, I hope not! It’s best not to ask questions nor look too close, Pa always told me. I don’t know for sure, nor do I want to.’

  The maid took a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you for listening, ma’am. I’m feeling better now. Da’s a smart man; he’ll not be off doing something foolish. Let me get you into your dinner gown; the gong will be sounding any minute.’

  Betsy might feel better, but Amanda did not. While she let the maid help her into her gown and arrange her coiffure, her mind raced furiously.

  Some sort of altercation was obviously brewing between the rival smuggling groups, and she was almost certain George was involved with one or the other. How would Papa react if his son and heir were taken up by riding officers? If the confrontation turned violent, George could even be injured. Or shot dead, like Farmer Johnson.

  Amanda could throttle him for worrying her so! She felt the strongest urge to proceed directly to George’s room and demand he tell her everything.

  Gratifying as that might be, George was unlikely to admit he was involved, even if he was. Like Althea, he would probably resent what he would see as her unwarranted interference in his private affairs.

  Perhaps she was doing him a great disservice. He might be entirely innocent, but his clandestine behaviour and her instincts said he was not.

  The anxiety in her gut spiralled tighter. If only they were not hosting this blasted dinner tonight! She debated going immediately to consult Papa. Though she hated to alarm him, wouldn’t he feel he had a right to know if she suspected George was caught up in some dangerous enterprise?

  No, she decided, best not to talk with him yet. Rather than alarm him making what might be baseless accusations against George, she must discover more about the struggle between the rival bands and her brother’s possible connection to it.

  ‘There, miss,’ Betsy said with satisfaction as she settled a shawl of spangled gauze about Amanda’s shoulders. ‘You look like a fairy princess. I hear there be a prince dining with you tonight, too,’ she added with a wink.

  Amanda stifled a groan. Trust the unfailing accuracy of servants’ gossip to have ferreted out that an eligible young man had been invited to Ashton Grove.

  Never had she felt less like entertaining. Girding herself for the task, she dismissed Betsy and walked towards the parlour.

  In spite of the guests, some time tonight she’d find a way to exchange a few private words with Mr Anders, implore him to go into Salters Bay tomorrow and consult his Navy contacts.

  The idea of confiding in Mr Anders brought a surprising measure of calm. He’d already shown himself to be intelligent, perceptive and discreet in his dealings with Althea. Her initial impression of him as a man of subtly leashed power, someone who could—indeed, had—held his own in a fight, had only strengthened as she’d come to know him better. She felt instinctively she could count on him to assist her.

  Despite the worry gnawing at her, the idea of stealing a few moments alone with him sent the now-familiar flare of excitement through her. Though she told herself she intended only a brief chat, still her mind embraced the image of other things a man and a maid might do in a midnight-dark chamber. Kissing. Caressing.

  Impatiently she shook her wayward thoughts free. She needed to concentrate on extricating George from potential disaster and finding a way to prevent what might be a dangerous, destructive confrontation.

  As she paused on the threshold of the parlour and pasted a polite smile on her face, she couldn’t help a sigh. Just when she thought she might begin concentrating on her preparations for London, everything at Ashton had grown much more complicated.

  After putting his bit about Althea into Miss Neville’s ear, Greville had tried to avoid them both these last two days: Althea, so he didn’t become a further bone of contention between the two cousins; Miss Neville because he was so powerfully drawn to seek her out. He wasn’t sure this hazy new concept of maintaining a friendship would triumph over the old, well-worn habits of seduction, and temptation was much easier to resist if he remained out of her enticing presence.

  He lingered in his chamber, wishing he could avoid the dinner tonight as well. He had no desire to be present to observe Trowbridge practically salivating over Miss Neville while he paraded his perfectly bred, perfectly connected, perfectly handsome body before her.

  He would have asked for a tray in his room, except that Althea had tracked him down in the library to tell him, in tones of dismay, that her uncle had said she would be included in the dinner tonight, as a special favour. Uncle James seemed to be so delighted at offering her the treat, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse him. She begged Greville to make sure he was seated near her so she’d have someone with whom to converse, since the Handsome Lord and her neighbour and his wife would surely concentrate all their attention on her uncle and her cousin.

  His host and hostess would be distressed as well, should he fail to appear. Besides, he knew he couldn’t pass up a chance to admire Miss Neville in a dinner gown.

  He could hardly blame Trowbridge for salivating. Her delectable form embraced by a thin veiling of silk, a tiny puff of sleeve displaying her slender arms and graceful shoulders, while a sliver of bodice offered the arousing sight of her breasts emerging from a deep décolletage…. Ah, he was ready to salivate himself.

  Still, he considered it a torture not much easier to endure than five lashes from the ship’s cat to remain in her presence when he would be forced to watch the blandishments sure to be cast in her direction by Trowbridge.

  Who was, Althea had said, ‘just the sort of man’ Amanda was looking for, he recalled with gritted teeth.

  Well, tortured or not, he had to attend, so he might as well get himself to the parlour before he compounded his social failings by being late.

  When he arrived in the salon a few minutes later, Lord Trowbridge and the Williamses had already come in. The young nobleman looked every bit as polished as Greville had expected: his masterfully cut black evening coat and cravat tied in a perfect Waterfall would have excited Greville’s admiration back in the days when such fripperies consumed his attention. Greville forced himself to keep straight fingers that wanted to curl themselves into fists.

  Greville would bet the hands encased in his lordship’s gloves, unlike his own tanned, callused, hardened ones, were white and soft. The man might be the high-born son of an earl, but Greville knew if he were about to storm the deck of an enemy ship, he’d rather have the low-born Gunny Porter or Old Tom or seaman’s son Captain Harrington at his side.

  The before-dinner chat was mercifully brief. Miss Neville led in their highest-ranking guest, while Lord Bronning escorted Mrs Williams, a garrulous woman who spared him scarcely a glance. Althea went in on his arm, murmuring a ‘thank you’.

  Galling as it was to watch Trowbridge monopolise Miss Neville, during most of the meal he was left out of the conversation, which suited him quite well. Mr Williams engaged their host; Mrs Williams, after enquiring if Althea was yet out and being informed that she wasn’t, but had been included by her uncle, as he considered this nearly a family party, said ‘oh’ in a disapproving tone and then ignored her. Greville supposed she must have already learned through the infallible local grapevine that he was not a person of importance, for she had paid him no heed either.

  The only break in the tedium was the mischievous Althea, who rolled her eyes and mimicked their neighbours when they were not watching. Greville almost spat out his soup when she put her napkin to her lips in an exaggerated fashion that parodied Lord Trowbridge.

  He was chuckling at another of her antics when, to his surprise, Trowbridge addressed him. ‘Mr…Anders, is it not? I understand you are related to the Stanhopes.’

  ‘Yes, the current marquess is my cousin.’

&nb
sp; ‘And you’ve lately served in Navy?’

  ‘I had that honour,’ Greville replied warily. Trowbridge’s expression was guileless; perhaps he simply wished to include the Nevilles’ guest in the general conversation.

  Still, something about him—the tone of his voice, the odd speculative light in his eye—warned Greville of an impending ambush as surely as if the foretop lookout had called out the sighting of an enemy sail.

  If Trowbridge had an interest in Miss Neville, he might see Greville as a potential rival. And if he were seeking ways to diminish that rival, given the attitudes certain to be shared by most of the company, exposing Greville’s recent occupation would be a simple means to do so.

  ‘Should I address you as “Lieutenant”?’

  ‘No,’ Greville replied, his suspicions hardening. Though he was not ashamed of his service—rather the contrary—neither did he mean to let Trowbridge use that information as a weapon to try to embarrass him, distressing his kindly host in the bargain. ‘I’m currently on furlough.’

  ‘Mr Anders was injured in a skirmish with pirates,’ Lord Bronning inserted, already looking uneasy. ‘As I understand is customary, he’s been temporarily assigned to the Coastal Brigade while he recovers. When Lord Englemere learned that Ashton Grove is situated not far from the station at Salters Bay, the marquess asked if his cousin might reside with us during his time there. It’s been our pleasure to have him as our guest,’ he added, with a nod to Greville.

  ‘Ah, that’s why you are not wearing a uniform,’ Trowbridge said. ‘You look fit enough now.’

  ‘Fit enough to halt stampeding horses two days ago,’ Miss Neville inserted, giving him a smile.

  Warmed by her compliment, he said, ‘I am much recovered.’

  ‘Will you be resuming your naval duties shortly?’ Trowbridge persisted.