by Allison Lane
Imagining her black hair spread across a pillow, her witch’s eyes laughing up at him, increased his fury. Circe, indeed. She certainly knew how to attract attention. So why saddle herself with a respectable position when she could do so much better on her own?
The questions filled his mind, as did the rage he could not explain. So he clung to the memory of the child – warm, intelligent, and oh so innocent. Her silver eyes and blonde curls stirred protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed – which was why his temper shattered when he left the bookshop an hour later and ran the woman down.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he snapped.
Her blue eyes widened as she stepped in front of the girl in a mockery of protection. The wind billowed her cloak, molding her gown around delectable legs.
“How dare you flaunt your liaisons on a public street?” he continued, ignoring the rise in his temperature. “It is bad enough to espouse indecency, but you have no right to expose a child to such vice.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” she protested, but her cheeks darkened in shame.
“I am not mistaken. I saw that disgusting display. You and that popinjay may go to perdition however you choose, but I cannot let you harm others. Who is your employer? Does he know that he hired a wanton?”
Anger blazed in her eyes, increasing his own. “Do you always jump to ridiculous conclusions, sir?” she snapped. “Surely a gentleman would discover the facts before heaping insults on a stranger. You are as dishonorable as those you condemn.”
“You overstep your place,” he growled, fisting his hands to keep from shaking her.
“How would you know?” Her free hand poked him in the chest. “You must be one of those arrogant lords who never admit fault. Why else would you demand that I bow to your misguided wishes? Well, you can go to perdition, sir. I don’t take orders from cads. And I never obey blithering idiots.” She turned to leave.
“This isn’t about me.” He grabbed her arm, then cursed as heat sizzled into his hand. Wanton, indeed. Circe herself could not incite such yearning.
“Isn’t it?” she demanded. “Look at yourself. You know nothing about me, yet you create a public spectacle by accusing me of fictitious crimes. You hold me captive while you abuse me, then blame me for your lack of control. I won’t stand for it.” She glared at his hand. “Release me or I will throw a fit guaranteed to mortify you for years. I’ve never encountered such a pompous fool.”
“Who is your employer?” Rage burned red around the edges of his vision.
“None of your business!”
A whimper distracted him. The girl peered around the woman’s side, tears shimmering in her eyes. His heart contracted. Circe was right. He was behaving as badly as she.
But he refused to abase himself to a wanton. Abandoning the argument, he stalked toward his hotel. He would discover her direction elsewhere. The situation must be rectified, but subjecting the child to a public brawl was unacceptable.
So is hurling insults into a stranger’s face.
He frowned, cringing as he reviewed his behavior. He should not have lost his temper – would not have done so if he hadn’t already been furious. The map had not been at all as advertised. In fact, it had been a complete fake. And discovering that the governess was wanton had done nothing to decrease his lust. He’d spent the last hour alternately cursing himself for wanting her and wondering whether the stationer was a forger or merely a fool. Now tomorrow would be worse. Instead of leaving for home, he must discover the girl’s parents and see that this so-called governess was turned off.
And what then? taunted his conscience. Will you offer her your protection?
CHAPTER TWO
William Seabrook drained his glass and headed for the door. His horse should be ready by now.
The White Hart Inn was not one of his usual haunts. He found its massive beams and dark paneling oppressive and its flagged floors cold. His own taste ran to the Golden Stag, as much for its lower prices as for its warmth. But the White Hart was useful when he wished to avoid acquaintances. Like today. He’d needed an afternoon with a certain widow, but had to avoid his sister, who was also in town. How could he explain that he sometimes experienced urges he could not control? Not only had he long criticized others for indulging their unseemly desires, but rumors made this a bad time to pursue the baser pleasures.
He shook off his guilt, setting his hat firmly on his head. It was done. He’d seen no one he knew. Now relaxed for the first time in days and fortified against the chill of the approaching storm, he was heading home.
As he stepped into the hallway, the outside door burst open on a gust of wind, admitting a swirl of leaves and a gentleman. It took a moment to place the face, for he hadn’t seen it in twelve years.
“Blake Townsend!” he exclaimed before recalling that the man was now an earl. “Or Rockhurst, I should say. What are you doing in Exeter?”
“Passing through.” Rockhurst smoothed a frown from his forehead.
William’s mind worked furiously as they exchanged pleasantries. He had met Townsend at Eton, though the man had been two forms ahead of him, so they had not been close. But perhaps he could turn this encounter to advantage. Might Rockhurst be interested in his sister?
He couldn’t ask, of course. Rockhurst would be accustomed to fending off title seekers and matchmakers. Only a plausible excuse would entice the man to the manor.
Fortunately, he had one. Blake Townsend was a fair-minded champion of justice. At Eton he had used his standing as heir to an earldom to prevent the stronger, higher-ranking students from harming timid or baseborn boys, most notably in the Easley case.
Reginald Easley, a solicitor’s brilliant son, had been a favorite of the tutors, which had irritated an unprincipled group of students headed by Lord Dabney. One day Easley was called upon to correct Dabney’s wrong answer to a simple question, an insult worsened when Dabney’s friends ridiculed him for his mistake. Easley turned up head-to-toe bruises the next morning.
Townsend had been furious. He believed lords should protect those beneath them, so he’d arranged to have Dabney permanently sent down. The tutors never learned who was really behind the incident, but the other students knew. They soon discovered that Townsend did not tolerate persecution. Honest competition was one thing, abuse of power quite another.
His reputation as a champion of the downtrodden did not endear him to some, but he refused to ignore his principles. Woe betide anyone who preyed on the weak, abandoned honor, or planned a prank that might cause injury. Current rumor speculated that Rockhurst had contrived the recent exposure of Dornbras as a procurer for London brothels.
Townsend had also been intrigued by challenges, which explained his insistence on taking personal charge of his inheritance after his father had died. He had been gone from Eton two years by then, but everyone knew the story. Blake had found the estate on the verge of ruin. Instead of returning to Oxford, he had fired his father’s advisors, hired Easley to rescue his investments, then taken up the reins of the estate himself. Reportedly, he had rebuilt his fortune several times over. Some hinted that he had done it through unscrupulous means, but William refused to believe it. That did not fit his character.
As he followed Rockhurst into a private parlor, he smiled. What more could he want for his sister Laura? Rockhurst had a title, wealth, a pleasing appearance, and a history of fairness.
“Will you be here long?” he asked as Rockhurst poured wine.
“A day or so.” He shrugged. “I only stopped to see if an ancient map Cavendish is offering would fit my collection.”
“I doubt Cavendish has anything of interest unless he printed it himself,” he warned.
“So I believe. He shan’t make that mistake again.” His expression sent shivers down William’s spine, though it confirmed that the man had not changed since school. Cavendish would be on the next ship to Australia.
If anyone could champion Catherine’s cause, it wou
ld be Rockhurst. And if helping Catherine placed him in Laura’s company, the man could hardly cry foul. Laura’s charm would soon bind him. No gentleman could ignore her. If only she weren’t so particular. She’d sent every one of them packing.
“If you can remain a few days longer, I need help.” William drained his glass, then stared at the fire, projecting an image of despair. “My sister is being unjustly persecuted, but I am powerless to counter the villain’s plot. Perhaps your greater standing could rescue her.”
“What tale is this?”
William paused. He had only one chance to win Rockhurst’s interest. “Catherine married our vicar some years ago. They made a formidable pair, working tirelessly to aid the poor, protect the innocent, and bring the unscrupulous to the attention of those in authority. Even after Harold’s death, she continued that work – our new vicar is more interested in hunting than in his duty to church or community.”
“Not unusual,” murmured Rockhurst, pouring more wine.
William sipped. “All was well until a neighbor began twisting her work to destroy her reputation. His rumors impute a more nefarious purpose to her visits.”
“Fomenting rebellion?” Rockhurst frowned.
“Debauchery.” He cursed himself. Of course Rockhurst would think first of political scheming. It was much on the minds of many men in these turbulent times. He forced the details past his lips – it always upset him to imagine his sister engaging in such sordid activity. “The rumors credit her with liaisons enough to weary a courtesan. Despite her denials, too many gossips believe him.”
“Who is spreading the tales?”
“People cite a score of sources, though Catherine claims every rumor originated with Jasper Rankin. His father is the highest-ranking lord in the vicinity, so Jasper wields great power. No one would question his word.”
“But why would he launch an undeserved attack on a vicar’s widow?” asked Rockhurst, clearly suspicious.
William shrugged. This was the point where his own thinking always stumbled. “I have no idea, and frankly it does not fit his image. He is the darling of local society and quite generous to the victims whenever he or his friends cause trouble. Beyond saying that he is avenging an insult, Catherine won’t discuss it. She swears anyone who knows her should recognize that the tales are lies, and she insists that the furor will fade in time.”
“So your claim that she is being unjustly persecuted rests solely on her word,” said Rockhurst. “Do you believe her?”
“Jasper is a gentleman.” As usual, he was torn between loyalty and his own confusion. No matter how much he needed to entice Rockhurst to Seabrook Manor, he could not exaggerate Jasper’s faults. “He is prone to high spirits and enjoys pleasure, but I’ve no evidence of worse – certainly nothing that might explain this sort of attack. On the other hand, I’ve never known Catherine to lie – certainly not about something this serious. Nearly everyone of stature has cut her, and our invitation to the squire’s harvest ball was rescinded.”
“So what would prompt an honorable man to lie about an honorable woman?” He almost sounded sarcastic.
William shrugged. “A misunderstanding, I presume. She was upset about damage he did to a tenant’s field last month. Perhaps someone overheard them arguing and drew the wrong conclusions. But whatever the cause, the tales are too ingrained to disappear on their own. It will require someone of your stature to stop them.”
“It does not sound promising.”
“I know that Catherine cannot have indulged in such perversions,” swore William, fearful that his doubts had made the task sound impossible – or unimportant. “And this is affecting everyone on the estate, even the servants. Sir Richard had offered one of my stableboys a position as groom, but he withdrew the offer the moment the rumors started. Come to Seabrook Manor and see for yourself. Once you understand how unfair the situation is, you will want to help – just as you did in the Easley affair.”
* * * *
Blake drained his glass, then walked to the window and back, pondering Seabrook’s tale. Rankin’s father couldn’t be more than a viscount if Seabrook thought an earl had enough power to influence him, especially an earl whose own reputation was suspect – he grimaced at how unthinking he had been when he’d first descended on London. But there had to be more to this story than Seabrook was telling. Not only did his sister outrank the local gossips, but viscount’s heirs did not attack baron’s sisters without cause. Seabrook was not even sure that Jasper was guilty.
The situation intrigued him. Perhaps Catherine had committed some indiscretions that were now being exaggerated – despite his claims, Seabrook clearly thought it possible – but if she was telling the truth, this was another case of the strong preying on the weak. And the cause might well be absurd. It wouldn’t be the first instance of eccentric reasoning. He knew one gentleman who had banned all glassware from his house after cutting himself on a sliver from a broken figurine. He ate only from silver plates, drank from silver goblets, and refused to try the new Argand lamps because they required glass chimneys. But his edicts hurt no one.
Blake made another circuit of the room. He was bored. He hadn’t faced a serious challenge since rescuing his inheritance. This one might well be impossible, of course. Gossips lived by the dictum Where there is smoke, there must be fire. Exposing a rumor as an outright lie would require considerable evidence, and even that might not sway the most vicious. They preferred to believe the worst.
There is nothing you can do, warned a voice in his head. Failure will make it harder to succeed in other cases.
Yet turning his back on injustice would make him a coward. His conscience was already pummeling him over Dornbras. He had known for years that the man was no good, yet he had never investigated his activities. Thus Dornbras had continued abducting virgins until Max had exposed him, only last month. How many girls had suffered because Blake had ignored his instincts?
Those instincts were again stirring. There was more to this case than Seabrook had revealed. Investigating it would take time, but he had plenty. He wasn’t due back in London until spring, when he must seriously consider securing the succession. His steward could manage the Abbey without his oversight. November was hardly a busy month.
“When did the rumors begin?” he asked, leaning against the mantel.
Seabrook frowned. “I’m not sure, for I did not hear the stories at first. At least a month ago. Perhaps longer.”
“You say no one else knows that Rankin started them?”
“Not to my knowledge. You must realize that few people discuss this with me. Catherine is family.”
“Yet she swears she is innocent.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t you press her for details?”
“Of course I did, but she swears they don’t matter. A more stubborn wench never lived.”
Blake returned to the window. The situation was muddled. Seabrook bounced from certainty that the tales were false to admitting that his only evidence was the unsubstantiated word of his sister. If he believed her, why had he not called Rankin out? Or did he expect that this request would decide whether a challenge was necessary?
He didn’t like being used, but he could hardly form an opinion based on the word of one muddled baron. And the tale raised enough questions to warrant an investigation. “I cannot promise success, but I will look into the matter,” he said over his shoulder.
Seabrook’s face lightened. “Thank you. This weighs heavily on Catherine’s mind. Will you join us for dinner?”
“No. I must discover what rumors are current.” And he must also deal with Cavendish and that unsuitable governess. His conscience would not allow him to ignore such problems. “I will join you in two days.”
Blake paced the parlor for another hour, pondering Seabrook’s request. It was decidedly odd. Despite having had no contact in years, five minutes after meeting, Seabrook had bared a family disgrace most people would lock firmly away.
He shook h
is head, for this tale was too similar to his own reputation. Rebuilding his inheritance had been so exhilarating that he had gone a trifle wild when he finally reached London, acquiring a name for debauchery that would not help Catherine. And her problem was as difficult as they came. Gossips rarely believed denials, instead twisting them into evidence of guilt – the lady doth protest too much. Catherine must know that the more she argued, the guiltier she seemed – which explained why she was hoping silence would make the rumors go away.
Not that they would. Even if no one was feeding them, her being a widow worked against her. She could never prove innocence, for she was no longer a virgin. Besides, a wellborn widow could conduct discreet liaisons with impunity. Even wellborn wives entertained lovers. A vicar’s widow might be held to a higher standard, but not to the point of ostracism. So what would provoke such scandal?
He frowned. There had to be more to the tale than a few intimate encounters. Rather than try to prove her innocent, he would be better served by forcing Rankin to recant. In the meantime, he would question the innkeeper. Tomorrow he would talk to those who knew more than Seabrook. Reaching into memory, he recalled an acquaintance whose elderly aunt lived in Exeter. If she wasn’t a gossip, she could at least introduce him into local society.
* * * *
“You what?” Catherine stared at her brother.
“A school friend will arrive in two days. I want Laura to make a good impression. He is of an age to marry.”
“You actually invited a man to court Laura? Why would he agree? She has a minuscule dowry.” She wanted Laura wed, but on her own terms. Arranged marriages often put the wife at the mercy of a brutal man.
William frowned. “I am perfectly capable of assuring my sisters’ futures, Catherine. You need not fret. Just see that Laura is presentable.”