Ashlyn Macnamara

by A Most Devilish Rogue

  She lengthened her stride. They needed to get home. The cluster of dwellings, each neatly whitewashed with gleaming tiled roofs, lay less than half a mile ahead at the base of a gentle slope. At the far end, a larger building held itself above the rest. The inn, although more often than not it housed locals out for a pint and a bit of gossip at the end of a long day.

  She trudged toward her cottage, a lone building at the very edge of town. It stood apart by design.

  “George came from the big house, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I believe he must have.” He couldn’t very well have been a guest at the inn. He would have shared the path back to the village with them. “And you are not to refer to him by his given name. It isn’t … proper.”

  Good gracious, she’d nearly said good ton, and that was the last thing she wanted Jack asking about. Out of necessity—out of her own actions—she’d put that life firmly behind her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WHERE HAVE ye been? It’s nearly tea time.” Sleeves rolled up and her arms dusted with flour, Biggles paused over the lump of dough she was kneading. Her eyes widened. “Lawks! Wot’s happened to the pair of ye?”

  Isabelle entered the kitchen, breathing deep of its aroma—yeast and flour and wood smoke, cut through with the scent of lavender. Bunches of the plant—her livelihood—hung from the ceiling beams to dry. “Jack had an adventure in the sea.”

  “Heavens!” Biggles circled the table and crouched until her creased face was level with the boy’s. “Are ye quite all right? Look at ye, all bedraggled.”

  Jack puffed out his chest. “I wasn’t scared, honest. And George pulled me out.”

  Biggles glanced up at Isabelle. Both brows disappeared beneath her fringe of straggly gray curls.

  “I’ve told Jack he’s not to refer to a gentleman by his given name,” Isabelle said.

  “But he said I could,” Jack insisted. “He gave me leave, he did.”

  Biggles fiddled with the boy’s collar. “Off with ye and put on some dry clothes. When ye come back, I’ll have a biscuit ready for ye.”

  As Jack padded off to change, the old woman heaved herself upright. “Gentleman, is it?”

  “I ought to change as well.” Isabelle’s cheeks burned, and she ducked her head to hide the reaction, but not quickly enough for Biggles’s sharp eye.

  “Ye’ll dry just fine by the fire. Ye’d best tell me what’s happened.”

  Isabelle turned toward the hearth and let the flames heat her cheeks. If she blushed any more deeply, it wouldn’t show. “Simple enough. I took Jack to play along the shore, and a wave caught him. A gentleman happened along and pulled Jack out before he drowned.”

  She threaded her fingers together to hide their sudden trembling. A surge of renewed terror engulfed her with the reminder of how close she’d come to losing her boy. The image of his small blond head disappearing beneath that icy gray water flashed through her mind.

  She’d see it for the rest of her life, for part of her would always question—if she’d been alone, would she have managed to save her son? Her father had never approved of sea bathing. Would she have broken through fear’s grip to plunge beneath the waves again and again until she found him? Would her shoulders have possessed the strength to pull him out?

  She wrapped her arms about her waist to ward off a sudden chill.

  “There, there, miss.” Biggles laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “All’s well as ends well. No harm’s been done, so best not dwell on might-have-beens.”

  Isabelle nodded. She’d been listening to Biggles’s adages for years now. As a young mother struggling with the challenges of learning to care for an infant, then a fast-growing, curious boy, she’d heard Biggles repeat them often. The old saws were as effective as they’d always been at calming Isabelle’s racing mind—that is to say, not at all.

  Biggles gave her shoulder a few extra pats for good measure before returning to her baking. “Where d’ye suppose this gentleman came from, and in the nick of time, too? I don’t know anyone in the village as goes by George.”

  Isabelle watched her dig the heels of her hands into the dough, turning and pressing in a practiced rhythm. “Only the apothecary.”

  “But he don’t go by George, do he? He puts on airs and wants to be Mr. Putnam, whether or not he ought to be.” Biggles punctuated this pronouncement with a nod that set the ruffles on her mobcap aquiver.

  Isabelle smiled at the show of loyalty. She suspected the apothecary only insisted on such a level of formality with her. She might be good enough to sell him sachets made with her lavender for a few extra pence, but that was the extent of his good will. Beyond that, she wasn’t worth knowing.

  She pushed the thought aside. Best she appease Biggles’s curiosity before the woman asked too many probing questions. “At any rate, it wasn’t the apothecary.”

  “I should think not. He’d not wet the hems of his trousers for the vicar.”

  An expectant silence fell. “I think he came from the manor,” Isabelle supplied at last.

  Biggles’s arms stopped their rhythm. “Oh, that sort of gentleman.”

  Isabelle turned her eyes away from Biggles’s scrutiny. “His social standing hardly signifies.”

  “It certainly does if the man’s got blunt.”

  Isabelle gritted her teeth. Biggles had been with her far too long—her only companion through sleepless nights of worry when Jack had been ill, the only voice of experience in her life—for her to become enraged over the implications. “The man may well have blunt, as you put it, but he is far, far beyond me, and therefore it does not matter whether he has ten thousand a year or nothing. I most likely shall never see him again.”

  * * *

  “AND where have you been?”

  Halfway across the stable yard, George froze. Henrietta stood, arms crossed, eyeing him up and down as if he were a recalcitrant schoolboy and she his tutor.

  “I took a walk down to the water,” he said. “Didn’t think it was forbidden.”

  “You’re running away again. What did you do? Attempt to drown yourself?”

  “Now, now.” He eyed his sodden garments. Not even his valet could save them, he feared. “Mama hasn’t pushed me quite that far.”

  “Yet.”

  Although his sisters’ musical performances were likely to drive him in that direction sooner than their mother’s schemes to marry him off. But he couldn’t insult Henrietta with such an observation. Even he knew the limit.

  “I wouldn’t blame you, you know.” She rolled her gaze skyward. “She’s pushing me at Marcus Chatham.”

  “Chatham?” He fell into step beside her, and they ambled toward the servants’ entrance. “He’s not such a bad fellow.”

  “He reeks of cheroot and brandy.”

  “Does he? And how would you know unless you’ve been standing entirely too close?”

  A frown creased her brow. “One does not need to stand closer than propriety demands to take note of it. One smells it the moment he enters a room.”

  “Well, it’s a decent, masculine smell. Can’t have a man smelling of roses or lavender or any of that female stuff.”

  She smacked at his elbow. “And what do you know of it? You’re just as bad.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He made a show of breathing in. “At this very moment, I most certainly do not smell of brandy.” A situation he intended to remedy as soon as possible.

  She wrinkled her nose. “You smell of seaweed.”

  “That I do, but you will note that seaweed and cheroot smell nothing alike.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Before the evening is through, you shall reek thoroughly of both.”

  “If it has the same effect on the other young ladies as it does on you, then perhaps I ought to adopt it as a strategy.”

  She halted before the door and crossed her arms. “Humph.”

  “How is it any different to you hanging about the stable yard in order to avoid unwanted at
tention?”

  Her cheeks colored. Hah. He’d caught her out. “I was looking for you, if you must know. Mama missed you. Prudence Wentworth has arrived along with several of her friends, and she wanted to secure an introduction.”

  George suppressed a groan. “Introduction? I’ve already met her once, and that was more than enough.”

  “Not for her, for her cousin. Her younger, unmarried cousin,” Henrietta specified.

  “This cousin—did she inherit that unfortunate nose?”

  Henrietta slapped at him again. “Honestly. There’s more to a girl than her looks. You ought to at least talk to her and see if you don’t have a thing or two in common.”

  He stopped short of commenting that at least in the bedroom he could douse the candles so he wouldn’t have to look at the creature. “I shouldn’t wish to marry a woman who shares my interests. It would be quite indecent.”

  “Which interests are those?” She raised a single brow, in an excellent imitation of, well, himself. “A penchant for cards?”

  “Among other things—which I’m not about to share with an unmarried sister.”

  She sniffed. “It’s quite unfair, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Unmarried men are rather expected to gain experience in certain matters, while unmarried girls must remain ignorant or risk ruin.”

  He froze. An unwelcome prickle raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “What do you know of such matters? By God, if some man has made advances, I shall call him out.”

  She blinked at him, her blue-gray eyes round and guileless. “I know very little, more’s the pity, so you can calm yourself. You won’t be facing anyone down the end of a pistol. Not on my account.”

  “Are you certain?” After all, she’d attained an age where certain men might no longer consider her marriageable, but perfectly acceptable as a mistress. Or if the man who had jilted her the year of her debut suddenly returned from India …

  “Completely.”

  He pressed his lips together. At five and twenty, his sister was headed firmly for the shelf and quite seemed to prefer matters that way. She never danced with the same partner twice, never encouraged gentlemen to call. In fact, ever since the disastrous breaking of her betrothal, she entertained no suitors at all. “Then why bring the matter up?”

  “An observation, nothing more. But you have to admit men are allowed more latitude in their youth.”

  “You’ve been reading that harridan again.”

  The corners of Henrietta’s mouth quirked. “Miss Wollstonecraft? And what if I have?”

  “People will think you a bluestocking.”

  “What if I am?” She waved the idea away with one hand. “It hardly signifies, as I’ve come to a decision. I do not intend to marry.”

  “Not marry?” He opened his mouth and closed it again several times until it occurred to him he must resemble a goldfish.

  She regarded him coolly. “Are you about to voice an opinion? If so, I caution you to tread carefully, or I might construe any comment you make as hypocritical.”

  He’d seen many examples of his younger sister’s quick mind over the years, but he rather disliked having that wit turned on him, especially when she got the better of him. “Mama ought to stop you reading. It’s made you too clever for your own good.”

  “If you are permitted to swan about unwed, I don’t see why I cannot do the same.” She nodded once, as if that decided the matter.

  “Henny, have pity on your brother. If Mama gets wind of this, she’ll be utterly relentless.”

  She fixed him with a hard gaze. “Yes, well, you need to marry and carry on the family name, while I would become nothing but a receptacle for some man’s seed.”

  He let out a breath while turning her words over in his mind. Yes, she had just called herself a receptacle. “Good God, Hen, listen to yourself.”

  “You can’t deny it’s the truth, now, can you?”

  “What … what do you plan to do with your days, then?”

  “I imagine I can devote myself to any number of good works.” She set a finger on her chin. “In fact, I might earn my keep. I hear Lady Epperley is looking for a paid companion.”

  “Paid companion? I’ll not have it. As the head of the family, I forbid it. Paid companion. As if we cannot afford to keep our own.”

  Henrietta went still, and her face paled except for a red blotch on each cheek. Never a good sign, that. “What next? You’ll oblige me to marry the first suitable man who comes along? No. As long as you remain unwed, you cannot force me along that path. It’s only fair, and you can’t deny it.”

  George blew out a breath. “Are you saying I need only choose a bride and you’ll stop this nonsense?”

  She smiled—a wicked little grin that sent a nasty pang coursing through his stomach. Last time he felt anything like it, he’d just received word his friend Summersby was in grave difficulties, and look how that had turned out. The man was dead by his own hand. “Given your reluctance, I feel I can hardly lose at such a prospect.”

  “Prospects?” said a new voice. “I’d say prospects are nothing but favorable. What do you say?”

  George turned. A man approached—or more accurately, a dandy. His collar was so stiff, his cravat so intricately knotted, his hair so artfully tousled, it must have taken his valet hours to achieve the effect. George searched his memory, but could not recall spotting the fellow at any of his usual haunts. If they’d ever been introduced across a card table, George had been too foxed to recall the other’s name.

  Beaming, the newcomer came to a halt before Henrietta, and his smile widened. “Prospects are becoming more favorable by the second, I’d say.”

  Henrietta sent him a stare made all the more withering by long practice at fending off undesired male attention. “Have we been introduced?”

  “I daresay, that’s a wrong I intend to see righted.” He cast George a hopeful glance, while Henrietta turned a fish eye on him.

  He allowed himself a sly quirk of his lips, an expression his sister would interpret rightly as his brotherly revenge grin. She’d brought it on herself since she insisted on needling him about his stance on matrimony. “My sister, Miss Henrietta Upperton.”

  Whatever else George might say about this man, he bowed quite impressively in one smooth motion from the waist, as if they were standing in the midst of a ballroom rather than outside a dusty servants’ entrance. The act took up a great deal of space, however, and Henrietta was obliged to retreat a step.

  “Reginald Leach at your service.”

  Thank God the man possessed the foresight to name himself and spare George an awkward moment. Not that they’d ever been introduced. Foxed or sober, George would never have forgotten such a ridiculous name.

  Henrietta inclined her head politely enough, but as she straightened, she caught George’s eye. One corner of her mouth twitched, the only outward sign of the laugh she was certainly holding in.

  “And how is it,” Leach went on, “that I’ve never yet had the occasion to make your acquaintance?”

  “I could not say, sir, only I do not go out much in society.” Her tone was courteous, but she carefully kept any warmth to herself.

  “Not go out in society? Goodness, what a waste. We must remedy that matter this instant.” He offered his arm, and when she declined to take it, he hurried on, unperturbed. “I might introduce you to any number of delightful young ladies and gentlemen. I’ve heard tell a goodly number are in attendance, beginning with the Marquess of Enfield and the Earl of Highgate and right on down to Miss Prudence Wentworth. I’ve heard tell that Lady Epperley might even remove herself from her estates to put in an appearance. Unheard of occurrence, that.”

  “Oh, indeed,” George deadpanned. “Tell me, have you heard any rumors of Hector Poore planning on attending?”

  Leach tore his attention away from Henrietta. “Good Lord, no. He’s had to leave the country. Hounded by creditors. If he was lucky, he escaped t
o the continent with a change of clothing, but of course, without a valet to attend him, he’s in a bad way.” He jerked his head for emphasis. “Bad way, indeed.”

  Damn, there went his best chance at winning some badly needed funds. Poore was infamous for his deep play once he’d had his share of brandy—deep and foolhardy.

  Henrietta waved a hand in front of her face. If she’d been in the ballroom, she’d have used her fan. “Well, I’m sure this is all very fascinating.”

  Leach beamed at her. “Isn’t it, though?”

  “George must find it so, but I daresay he thinks the news of Poore a disappointment.”

  “Why on earth would you say that?” George attempted to infuse his tone with a measure of boredom equal to Henrietta’s.

  She studied her nails a moment before swiping them along her shoulder. “I imagine you expected to get in a few hands of piquet while you were here.”

  George blinked. How in God’s name had she known anything about that?

  “Do you play, Miss Upperton?”

  “Of course not,” George interceded before Henrietta could reply. “At least not for any sort of stakes.”

  His interruption earned him the oddest expression, a glare accompanied by a gleam he knew meant no good at all. His sister was about to make him pay for introducing her to Leach—with interest.

  Compounded, no doubt.

  “My brother has the right of it.” Henrietta tucked her fingers into the crook of Leach’s elbow. “I do not play. But I should love the opportunity to learn from someone so knowledgeable.”

  “I should be delighted.” Leach smiled down on her, his expression akin to a child in a sweetshop. “Delighted indeed.”

  George stepped closer and fixed Leach with a frown worthy of any protective older brother. He’d been on the receiving end of enough of them in his younger days to have mastered the art. “Perhaps such knowledge is best passed on by family.”

  “Nonsense, George. I said I’d like to learn from someone who knows what he’s about.”