Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  He was loath to admit it, but what she suggested terrified him, right down to his unpolished and scuffed boots.

  Go back to Town? To have the eye of Society upon him? What if he fell? Or just stumbled? He’d look the buffoon. And worse than being laughed at, he didn’t want the pitying glances he knew would be directed at him, discreetly of course.

  Hadn’t Miss Smythe, once she’d gained a look at his scarred face, scooted out of his grasp with all due haste? Lesson learned there.

  No, he’d been foolish to dream of military grandeur in the first place, and now he preferred to exhibit his mislaid and tattered ideals in private.

  “I have no desire to go to London,” he told her, picking up the reins and urging the horse forward again.

  She laughed. “Liar. Tell me you wouldn’t love to spend an afternoon at Tatt’s? Or off in one of those clubs you men find so satisfying?” She paused for a second. “What does go on at White’s? I would so love to see that infamous betting book.”

  “Inside White’s?” He nearly dropped the ribbons. “That is certainly no place for a lady.” Now he was convinced the chit was mad. A young woman inside those hallowed halls? Never!

  “But it is for a gentleman?” she argued. “How is that? I’ve never understood the distinction.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his explanation.

  “Well…well…” he began. “Oh, demmit, suffice it to say it is not a fit place for you. Or any lady.”

  “If I wasn’t going to Brighton, I think I might want to discover the truth for myself.”

  That did it for Jemmy. He would see her on the mail coach for Brighton if he had to pay the fare himself and bribe the driver to keep her locked inside the coach until she was at the very edge of the sea, well and good away from White’s.

  They continued along the lane in silence and he tried his best to ignore the wicked smile tilting her lips. Gads, what the devil was she imagining with such a look on her face?

  “Don’t you want to hear what else I would do?” she offered just then.

  “No!” he shot back. “It’s bad enough I’m bound for the Bramley Hollow gallows, but I won’t lose my membership at Brook’s as well.”

  “At this pace you’ll have us both dancing to the hangman’s tune.” She laughed and took the reins from him, giving them a confident toss. The horse responded by picking up its pace. “Besides, ’tis a long way to Brighton, and I haven’t the time to tarry.”

  He retrieved the ribbons from her grasp, his pride once again piqued. He might not make an elegant leg, but he could still drive a cart. “What has you in such a hurry?”

  That stopped her smug stance. “As I said before, the matter is personal.”

  So she wasn’t going to confide in him. “If you won’t tell me what is in Brighton,” he said, “I fear I will have to come to my own conclusions.”

  “And those would be?”

  “A lover.”

  She made an inelegant snort. “You and Mrs. Maguire. She thought I was going there to meet a gentleman as well.” She sighed, her fingers twining around her reticule strings again. “That isn’t why I am going to Brighton.”

  “A job, perhaps?”

  She shook her head.

  Jemmy sat back and took another long look at her. “Perhaps you are going to escape a wretched betrothal. I would venture your ne’er-do-well guardian has engaged you to a terrible and hideous old roué and you are running away to escape a disastrous future.”

  At this, she laughed again. “That only happens in French romances.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so. But I still think you mean to escape a betrothal.”

  She shook her head and then looked away. “Nothing like that, I assure you,” she said softly. “I’ve never been engaged.”

  Something about her wistful tone made him pause. “That seems impossible,” he told her. “What is wrong with the men in …in…Where is it that you are from? I’ve forgotten.”

  “That’s because I didn’t say,” she replied, once again smiling.

  “Ah, yes. Another of your mysterious qualities.”

  She peeked up from beneath her bonnet, a blush stealing over her cheeks. “You think I’m mysterious?”

  “Immensely,” he told her, and was rewarded with another burst of laughter, sweet and entirely filled with joy. “In fact, I find you quite—”

  They rounded a corner and as they did, his words fell to a halt at the sight before them.

  A single man stood in the roadway, his hand in the air signaling them to stop. Behind him sat a large carriage filling the way, an obstruction capable of stopping even the most determined criminal.

  “Who is that?” she whispered.

  “Mr. Holmes. The village constable.”

  “And am I to suppose that inside the carriage is this magistrate you hold in such terror?”

  Jemmy shook his head. “No. Worse.”

  “Worse than the magistrate?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Who could be worse than this unholy magistrate you’ve told me so much about?”

  “My mother.”

  “Lady Finch?” she gasped.

  And from the way the color drained from her once rosy cheeks, he had no doubts she understood exactly what fate had in store for them.

  The hangman would have been a far more welcome sight.

  As Jemmy had explained hastily to Amanda, it would do them no good to make a run for it, so they had continued toward the barricade as if they were doing nothing more than taking a companionable morning drive through the countryside.

  “Jemmy, you’ve found her!” Lady Finch exclaimed as he pulled to a stop before the frowning constable. “Excellent! Esme came by this morning just after you left, and when we arrived at her cottage there was no sign of you or the young lady.” Her brows rose at the significance of such a situation. “But here you are safe and sound—both of you.”

  Used as Amanda was to her mother’s critical eye, nothing could have prepared her for Lady Finch’s sharp gaze. Heavens, she’d rather have to go through another tea with Mrs. DrummondBurrell in hopes of receiving vouchers to Almack’s than face this all too discerning inspection.

  From Lady Finch’s furrowed brow and none-too- keen expression, Amanda suspected her false front was about to be uncloaked.

  “Miss Smythe, I believe it is?” the baroness asked.

  Amanda nodded, afraid to breathe even a word before the lady all the ton held in an unearthly terror. ’Twas said that even though Lady Finch had come to town only once in the last thirty years, she knew what the king had for breakfast before the man was served his plate.

  If anyone could ferret out her true identity, it was Lady Finch.

  “Where are your people, gel? Where do you come from?”

  At this question, Jemmy turned to her, one of his brows quirked in a quizzical air. She’d denied him these answers, but in the face of the indomitable Lady Finch, they both knew there was no eluding the questions now.

  “I’m …I’m…I’m from London,” she offered.

  Lady Finch huffed, then leaned over and tapped her cane on the side of her barouche. “Mrs. Radleigh, your assistance please.”

  A moment later a woman climbed down from the carriage, notebook in hand and pen at the ready. She was dressed in widow’s weeds, with her face buried within the expanse of her black bonnet, so it was hard to determine how old Mrs. Radleigh was or what she looked like.

  Jemmy leaned over and whispered, “My mother’s secretary, poor chit. East India widow. No family to speak of, so Mother took her in.” He shook his head woefully, as if that were the worst fate to befall the lady. “Why, just the other day, the old dragon had her writing a—”

  “What is that, James?” his sharp-eared mother called out.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said in a polite and deferential tone, though Amanda didn’t miss the lingering sparks of mischief in his eyes.

  “So, Miss Smythe of London,�
� Lady Finch began as she elbowed Mr. Holmes out of her path and stalked toward the pony cart. “I will have your parents’ directions in London. Now.”

  It was an order that brooked no refusal. “Number Eight, Hanway Street,” she told the lady. She might have to answer the baroness’s questions, but that didn’t mean she had to tell the truth. Besides, it wasn’t a complete lie. It was the house they had let six years ago during her Season, or as her father liked to call it, “that demmed waste of my money.”

  Besides, it was the only London address she knew by heart. And it would take even the indomitable Lady Finch some time to determine her falsehood. By then Amanda would be well on her way to Brighton.

  “Harrumph! London, you say?” The lady thumped her cane to the hard-packed road. “You haven’t the sound nor the look of a girl brought up in the city, but then again, I daresay you went to school in Bath, where they were able to rid you of those wretched Town affectations.”

  Amanda’s mouth opened, despite her very proper Bath education. How had Lady Finch known where she’d gone to school? Why, she might as well ’fess up right this very moment and return home. Return to the dreadful future awaiting her there.

  But before she could do anything so drastic, something incredible happened, something so miraculous that it gave her the faith to believe that all was not lost. Not quite yet.

  For as Lady Finch turned her attention to Mrs. Radleigh, instructing her hapless secretary to make a notation of the address and check it against her previous correspondence, Jemmy pressed his leg against Amanda’s.

  It was such a slight movement, at first she thought he’d just accidentally bumped her, but then as the pressure increased, Amanda slanted a glance up from beneath her bonnet to find him shooting her a quick wink.

  “Hang in there, minx,” he whispered. “Her Dragonship is feisty, but my money is on you.” Then he leaned closer, so his lips were but a hair’s breadth from her ear. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’ll see you get to Brighton if I have to take you there myself.”

  See her all the way to Brighton? Why, the very idea was scandalous. Amanda didn’t know what to say. Not that she could have responded with Lady Finch so close at hand.

  Nor did it appear that the baroness was paying them any heed, for she was engrossed in dictating a long list to Mrs. Radleigh. “…and you’ll need to send a note to Tunbridge for those fellows who played at Lady Kirkwood’s soirée last winter. They were tolerable musicians and should suffice for a betrothal ball.”

  “A wha-a-at?” Amanda blurted out.

  “Why, your betrothal ball, Miss Smythe,” Lady Finch replied matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Maguire and I decided it is the most expedient means of finding your match. She is of the opinion that time is of the essence, and I”—she glanced from Amanda to her son and then back to Amanda—“share that notion.”

  “But I don’t want to be—” Amanda’s protest was cut short by a none-too-gentle jab in the ribs by Jemmy.

  He made a great show of floundering with the reins as if he’d dropped them. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Smythe,” he said. “How terribly clumsy of me. What was it you were saying? That you didn’t want my dear mother to go to such bother? I agree. Really, Mother, is a ball entirely necessary?”

  “I don’t see that this is any of your concern, Jemmy,” Lady Finch said, her sharp gaze still fixed on Amanda.

  Amanda protested despite her aching ribs. “My lady, a ball is not necessary.”

  “It most certainly is,” Lady Finch declared. “All the best young men will be invited. Just think, in two nights, you’ll be happily wed.”

  “Two nights?” both she and Jemmy repeated.

  Lady Finch cocked an iron brow. “And not a moment too soon, I assume.”

  “Uh-hum,” the constable coughed.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. What is it?” she asked.

  “My lady, I’ll have to take her into custody.” He coughed again and shuffled his feet. “She was breaking the law. And the young master as well.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Finch declared. “My son was merely bringing Miss Smythe over to Finch Manor so she would have proper accommodations until the match is made.”

  The constable narrowed his gaze on Jemmy. “Is that so?”

  “Certainly, Holmes,” he told him. “What else would I be doing?”

  Amanda had to admire his mettle. He said it as if he meant it.

  “Seems a roundabout way, iffin you ask me.” Holmes rubbed his chin and shot a glance around the cart at the lonely track behind them.

  Jemmy grinned at the man. “Sir, if you had such a lovely lady at your side, would you take the most direct route?”

  Mr. Holmes colored, as did Amanda. She glanced down at her boots to hide her astonishment. James Reyburn thought her lovely? Though it was probably just more evidence of his legendary skills of exaggeration, a part of her clung to a hope that he was telling the truth.

  “That will be quite enough from you, Jemmy,” Lady Finch scolded. “Miss Smythe, attend me in my carriage.” She nodded at Amanda to get down. “Now.”

  From the set of the lady’s jaw, Amanda knew she had no choice but to do as the imperious baroness bid.

  But to her surprise, Jemmy caught her arm and held her in place.

  “Mother, I see no reason why I can’t continue escorting Miss Smythe home while you and Mrs. Radleigh see to your errands in the village. I am sure you have any number of things to—”

  “Preposterous!” Lady Finch told him, coming forward in a brisk, no-nonsense manner and taking the situation in hand. She caught up Amanda’s elbow and pulled her down from the cart. “Miss Smythe and I have much to discuss.” Lady Finch led her away, tugging Amanda along when she dragged her heels. “My dear girl, I would like to hear your opinions on the flowers and the dinner menu for your ball. I believe a bride should have some say in the matters, though I’ve already instructed Cook on several points. However, I do think there is some leeway on the salads.”

  With the barouche looming before her, Amanda thought a French tumbrel might have been more appropriate.

  “Mother!” Jemmy called out, lodging one more protest. “Miss Smythe may not want to be dragged about town. She would probably like a respite from her travels and I could—”

  “Jemmy,” Lady Finch said, “I think you’ve seen quite enough of Miss Smythe this morning. You can have the pleasure of her company tonight at dinner.” With that, his mother prodded Amanda into the carriage. And to her shock, she could have sworn she heard the baroness muttering under her breath, “A little time apart ought to have him in a fine fettle.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the baroness, amazed at her astute observation.

  Leave it to Lady Finch to know that a little time is all I have left.

  Four

  Jemmy entered the dining room at precisely quarter after six, expecting quite a fuss over their now infamous guest. But the room was silent and still—with no one about, save his mother. Not even their loyal butler, Addison, who presided over every meal with a fierce attention to detail, was in sight. Only a small collection of trays on the sideboard containing sliced meats and cheeses, breads, and a few dishes of Cook’s best sauces and stewed vegetables awaited him.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked, filling a plate and taking his place at the table. What he really wanted to ask was “Where is Miss Smythe?” but decided against such a blatant question.

  So much for his discretion. His mother’s first glance, then second more inspecting one, said more than if he’d asked directly as to Miss Smythe’s whereabouts. “If you didn’t insist on living down at the gatehouse, you wouldn’t be late for dinner.”

  “I’m fashionable,” he replied. “And it doesn’t appear that I’ve missed all that much.” He glanced around the empty seats. “So where is everyone?”

  “Your father is repotting the specimens he got from Lord Bellweather, and Mrs. Radleigh is finishing up a few tasks. She should be down presentl
y.” She gave his appearance another once-over before returning her attention to the papers before her.

  Demmit, he knew he shouldn’t have come up to the house in a clean waistcoat and jacket. She’d most definitely gotten the wrong idea. And of course, she failed to mention Miss Smythe’s whereabouts. Deliberately, if he knew his mother.

  He ran his hand over his chin and winced when he came to the nick he’d given himself shaving. Still, in his favor, if his mother had an opinion as to his nattily tied cravat and pressed jacket, she said nothing—for once. He could only imagine the earful he’d be getting if he’d succeeded in convincing his father’s valet, Rogers, to give his hair a trim.

  Rather than offer her any further cause for speculation, he dug into his meal and kept his gaze pinned on the food before him.

  But it wasn’t long before he broke the silence between them, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him. “Mother?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Where is Miss Smythe? Aren’t prospective brides allowed a last supper?” He managed a light smile as if he were just trying to make some pleasant conversation.

  After all, it would be odd if he didn’t ask about their houseguest, wouldn’t it?

  “She was a bit fatigued from our shopping trip and so I told her not to worry about making herself presentable for supper. Addison is taking her a tray.”

  A bit fatigued? He didn’t like the sound of that. “I told you that she shouldn’t be dragged about,” he said, letting his temper get the better of him. “You’ve probably worn her out completely.”

  His mother’s brow arched, and once again that knowing gaze fell on him. “I doubt that,” she said with a bemused tone. “She appeared quite fit when I checked on her not a half an hour ago.”

  Well, she needn’t smile about it, he thought. His concern had been naught but… Oh, demmit, he could hardly tell his mother that he’d made a promise to take the lady to Brighton. Yet how was he going to do that if his mother insisted on dragging the poor chit about and wearing her to a frazzle?

  They ate for a time in silence, Jemmy considering all the ways he could smuggle Miss Smythe out of the shire. If only he had one of the Danvers brothers about. They always seemed to know how to take care of these clandestine matters.