“Crispin,” said the intriguing blonde. Somehow, she managed to be beautiful even with her blue eyes narrowed on him. “Named after the patron saint of shoemakers.” Her words were clipped as if she only grudgingly supplied the information. Ah, well, he had run her down in the hotel lobby and kissed her, sins for which he would doubtless be made to pay.
“Interesting choice of names,” he muttered, wondering how the cat had come to be named for a saint. Robbie was far more inclined to name him Demon for the image he portrayed. The cat stood guard at his mistress’ feet, his bright gold eyes glaring at Robbie out of midnight black fur.
He had not been unhappy to discover the fair damsel he had collided with at Grillon’s was The Girl Who Needed Watching. But he chaffed at the thought of what it signified. Lady Claremont would not have mistaken Chastity’s age. She was too wily a woman for that. Yet there was no use becoming annoyed. He should have known the matchmaker countess was never off duty. Lady Sanborn, on the other hand, was a picture of aged innocence. Could she be in on the plan to match him with Chastity Reynolds or had that been the idea of The Grand Countess alone?
He wasn’t opposed to marriage in the abstract but he would choose his own bride, one graced with spirit, intelligence and beauty. One not unlike Miss Reynolds, in point of fact. But, of course, he required a woman who actually liked him. Still, it wouldn’t be a difficult assignment to escort her around Brighton, that is, if she would consent. And Jack might like to meet her friend. His uncle had always preferred women with dark hair and eyes. Robbie generally favored blondes. Well, except for that one redhead, but she’d gone and married his twin.
“My friend, Muriel, told me you are here at the king’s invitation,” said the great-aunt. The teasing glimmer in her eyes made him think she might be aware of Lady Claremont’s scheming. But then spies were ever suspicious.
“I am,” he said. “His Majesty has been very generous.”
Lady Sanborn sagely nodded. “Prinny is at his best when he is giving things away.”
“How wonderful you are staying at the Pavilion!” enthused Miss Crockett, her voice rising with her excitement.
He gave the ebony-haired beauty a warm smile. “My uncle, the vicomte de Saintonge, and I were invited to stay there for the summer, if we like.”
He glanced at Miss Reynolds, who returned him a look of utter disdain.
Her companion, Miss Crockett, however, turned her face to him in delight. “How marvelous! I so want to see the Pavilion.”
“If the king comes to Brighton while you are here,” interjected Lady Sanborn, “I expect you shall. Prinny often invites me to his dinners. If you can endure the heated rooms and long evenings, I am certain he would not object to adding two attractive young ladies to his table.”
“My uncle and I might escort you there ourselves,” Robbie offered, trying to make up to Miss Reynolds for his initial familiarity. That would please Muriel, too. Prinny would doubtless allow them partners for one of his evenings at the Pavilion. However, one glance at Miss Reynolds told him she was not receptive to the idea.
Rose glided into Chastity’s bedchamber after the evening concluded with stars in her eyes. A deep sigh preceded an exuberant description of The Rogue.
“You can’t be serious!” Chastity blurted. When Rose averted her eyes, Chastity inwardly grimaced. She had not been mistaken about her friend’s budding tendre for the man. “You don’t even know him, Rose.”
Her friend sat on the edge of the bed. “And why should I not admire such a man? He’s ever so attractive and charming. And those shoulders.” Another sigh followed. “Besides, he was sent here by a countess, a friend of your great-aunt’s, who obviously trusts him to act the gentleman.”
“‘Act’ is a most accurate word,” muttered Chastity as she took up her place in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace where Rose joined her. “He is the man who nearly knocked me to the floor of the hotel lobby in London without, I remind you, a hint of an apology.”
Rose’s brows rose. “He is that man?”
“The very same, which might explain Crispin’s reaction to him.” She stared into the fire burning on the grate, the memory of his demanding kiss vivid in her mind. She could still feel his lips on hers and was shamed by her reaction, giving in to the power of his kiss. A log collapsed sending sparks up the chimney and startling her out of her reverie. “Why would a friend of my great-aunt send him to call upon me?”
“Yes, that is curious. And how could she think you a young girl?” Rose shrugged and returned Chastity a steady gaze. “Still, if he and his uncle can gain us entrance to the Pavilion or an invitation to dine with the king, I would put up with most any bad habits he might possess.”
“I daresay he has some you would not like,” said Chastity, mentally listing what those might be as she got to her feet and went to stir the fire. The Rogue’s handsome visage appeared in the flames, like Lucifer rising out of his element. “Womanizing, wagering and drinking until deep in his cups doubtless are the least of his lesser attributes.”
“That sounds like a description of Prinny,” said Rose with a chuckle. “And, as I recall, you were inclined to like him.”
Chastity reclaimed her seat on one of the chairs in front of the fire. “I suppose I am, for he is, by all accounts, a jolly host to his friends.”
“You didn’t like the staid country gentlemen of Northampton,” Rose reminded her. “At least Sir Robert isn’t one of those.”
“Indeed. More dangerous, perhaps, yet he and his uncle might be useful in showing us more of Brighton.” If I can tolerate his smirks. “That is why I accepted his invitation for us to join them for a ride tomorrow.”
Rose smiled, a wistful expression on her face. “I am so pleased you did.”
Owing to his promise to The Grand Countess, Robbie had offered a ride around Brighton to the woman he now thought of as The Keeper of the Demon Cat. Jack would want to meet Miss Crockett, of course, so he invited his uncle along. It was unfortunate that the fetching creature Robbie had encountered in London had taken a dislike to him.
Over breakfast, they discussed the ladies. “I must compliment you, Nephew. You wasted no time in finding us two lovelies, as you describe them, though I expect, from what you have told me, Miss Reynolds is not overly fond of you.”
“In that you are correct,” Robbie said with a frown. It occurred to him that Miss Reynolds might be a country hoyden in search of a man of good fortune, excluding him, of course. Nevertheless, he had promised Lady Claremont to see to the lady’s welfare, and he would. Perhaps he could find her a suitable husband. Surely The Grand Countess would be pleased with that.
“What of Miss Crockett?” By the look on Jack’s face, he eagerly anticipated meeting her.
“Unlike her friend, Miss Crockett is all that is sweet, a country miss to be sure, but one with a biddable temperament. She, too, comes from Northampton, but from her proper speech and manners, I expect she had a governess.”
“Tell me she has dark hair and you’ll set my heart pounding.”
Robbie chuckled. “She does.”
“Then I shall leave the virago to you.”
The morning had begun with a drizzle but by ten o’clock, though a chill remained in the air, the sun was making an effort to shine as they reined their horses in front of Lady Sanborn’s house. They’d brought two more of the king’s horses for the ladies.
In the entry hall, Robbie bid good day to Miss Reynolds and introduced Jack to Lady Sanborn and Miss Crockett. Thankfully, the Demon Cat was nowhere in sight.
Soon after, the ladies gathered up the skirts of their riding habits, took their short whips in hand and followed Robbie and Jack outside.
Robbie had to admit The Keeper of the Demon Cat made a beautiful picture in her crimson riding habit with her blonde curls dangling from her jaunty hat set at an angle on her head. As she had gathered her skirts to walk down the stairs, he had glimpsed the beginning of a slim calf above a stylish ha
lf boot.
With a sly smile, he said, “I selected a spirited mare for you, Miss Reynolds, assuming that would be your choice.”
Chastity met his impudent gaze, annoyed he should think to know her so well. Pursing her lips, she turned her attention to the roan mare waiting for her. She might not have liked that he had been the one choosing the horse, but she had to smile as she looked into the mare’s intelligent brown eyes. The Rogue, who had knocked on Aunt Agatha’s door attired as a gentleman, had guessed correctly.
His uncle, the vicomte de Saintonge, led Rose to another mare. “Allow me to assist,” he said before giving her a hand up into the sidesaddle. The Florentia blue riding suit Rose had chosen this morning set off her coloring to perfection and, though they could not be observed in their full glory, the blue half boots Chastity had given her were lovely.
Chastity had been pleased to discover the uncle was not an older man as his noble title and relationship to Sir Robert suggested. Rather, he was a very handsome man of an age with his nephew but with perfect manners. His auburn hair fell in soft waves to his nape, a complement to his finely carved features and cinnamon-colored eyes. His accented voice had the same effect on her as a glass of sherry after a trying day.
“May I help you into your saddle?” Sir Robert asked.
Shifting her gaze to him, she said, “If you will, thank you.” It was impossible for a lady to mount on her own or she would have done so.
He made a quick check of the girth and straps before coming to stand before her.
Thinking he would hold out his cupped hands for her to step into, she put her short whip in her left hand and reached for the pommel, whereupon he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her into the sidesaddle in one quick move. “Sir!” she protested, resisting the temptation to swat him with her whip. Again, he had done with her as he willed with no deference to her being a lady.
“I thought it the most efficient way to seat you,” he said. “Do you object?”
She settled herself into the saddle, hooking her knee around the pommel. “Too late for that,” she acknowledged, impressed, notwithstanding her pique, at his strength in lifting her without effort. She was no tiny thing, after all, taller than many women. Still, it was not the done thing to touch an unfamiliar lady so. By his manner, she judged he was quite indifferent to her protest. Amused, more like, given his teasing manner.
He looked the picture of a well-dressed London buck, his neckcloth perfectly tied in an understated manner and his beaver hat perched upon his dark brown hair. But he was no dandy. The fit of his coat suggested he spent considerable time at Mr. Jackson’s boxing club. But then, what else did a man of leisure do in London, she asked herself, besides participating in sporting events, horse racing and cards? Oh, yes, and women.
From the front door, Aunt Agatha stood watching them. Her gown, the color of the daffodils in her garden, spoke of her cheery mood. Chastity had noticed her levity at breakfast when she bubbled over with joy at some new plants she was installing on the side of the house. Had she witnessed the impropriety of Sir Robert’s lifting her great-niece into the saddle? Perhaps not as she’d said nothing of it. Instead, she waved them off. “Enjoy yourselves!”
The four of them rode abreast as they followed the path Sir Robert chose. It led them first in front of the Royal Pavilion where they paused to admire the otherworldly domes and turrets rising from the surrounding vegetation as if out of a dream.
The sheer magnificence of the king’s Brighton home brought to mind Coleridge’s Kubla Khan. Under her breath, Chastity began to recite,
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
“The king’s Pavilion does seem as if it were lifted out of the Far East,” said Sir Robert. “Outside, it speaks of India but much of the interior decoration is in the Chinese style with fantastic dragons, lotus blossoms and walls painted to make you believe you are in a bamboo forest.”
Chastity looked at him askance, thinking he must be jesting, but his expression told her he was serious. “Aunt Agatha tells such stories of it, I did wonder. She calls it ‘Prinny’s fantasy’.”
“And so it is,” put in the vicomte.
“Do you like what you see, Miss Reynolds?” asked Sir Robert.
She allowed a smile to form on her face as she gazed at the otherworldly Pavilion. “I like that it’s not ordinary but speaks of dreams and exotic places.”
Sir Robert regarded her for a moment before turning his attention again to the Pavilion. “You are a romantic, Miss Reynolds.”
“Not I, sir. I’m as practical as salt.” In truth, Chastity did harbor romantic notions though she would not admit that to him.
He gave her a disbelieving look and then gazed again at the Pavilion. “I expect Prinny’s Brighton home provided the escape he needed from his father’s palace of piety and pride. George III never understood his son.”
“Do you think his father drove him away?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Most certainly. Perhaps more than anyone else, Prinny’s father was responsible for his son becoming The Grand Corinthian. His mother, too, did not favor him, even though he was heir to the throne.”
Chastity pondered this for a moment feeling more sympathy for the stylish young prince who did not fit with his dour family and had sought acceptance in other places. “My great-aunt tells me Prinny is revered in Brighton. Did you know that he is expected to visit soon?”
The Rogue smiled. “I did, yes.”
His smile had the smug air of one who hid a secret he had no intention of sharing. “Come, let us continue our ride.”
They turned up the Steyne.
“Lady Sanborn says the whole town is making ready for the king,” said Rose.
“As I would expect,” said Sir Robert, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Prinny is the fire that lights the hearth of the town, the one whose presence makes the Brighton Season what it is. Where he goes, the ton follows.”
Chastity was certain Rose thought The Rogue’s smile was directed at her for she gave him a look of adoration. “Sir Robert, will you give us a tour of the king’s Pavilion?”
“I am sure that can be arranged,” he said, darting a glance at Chastity.
Rose beamed at him.
Chastity fought the temptation to roll her eyes. Over pastries and coffee that morning, Rose had spoken of Sir Robert in glowing terms. But the arrogant rogue was not the suitor Chastity had in mind for her friend. Better the continental uncle than the rakish nephew.
As they paused to take in the magnificence of the Pavilion, the vicomte spoke in his rich melodic voice. “The Pavilion makes me think of that collection of Arabian stories I once read, The Thousand and One Nights…an intriguing set of tales.”
“I shall have to read them,” remarked Chastity, which drew a smile from the vicomte, revealing a dimple in one cheek. An auburn curl fell across his forehead making him appear younger than he was. The uncle fascinated her. Clearly he was French in dress and manner, yet his English was flawless. “You make me eager to see the inside of the Pavilion. The stables are said to be extravagant, too.”
“They must be seen to be believed,” he said. “They are home to more than sixty horses. Why, the domed building itself dwarfs the Pavilion.”
Given the vicomte’s accent, Chastity had to know what place he called home. “Do you make your home in France?”
“My home is on the Isle of Guernsey,” he said, “which, I expect you know, is a dependency of the British Crown. French is spoken there as well as English. My father, the comte, has a chateau and vineyards in the west of France in what was the province of Saintonge before the revolution. My family travels frequently between France and England. My mother is English, you see. Like Robbie’s family, we are in shipping.”
“Shipping?” Chas
tity asked, surprised. “Do you mean the importing trade?”
“Robbie’s father and mine are both shipmasters,” said the vicomte. His lips curved up in a smile as his gaze rested on Sir Robert. “They are merchants now but once privateers.”
Chastity had difficulty thinking of The Rogue as “Robbie”, though his smile conjured images of a small boy always into mischief. She could well believe his father was a privateer. While she was aware of the role of privateers in the war with France, she would never have thought Sir Robert had ships. “You have ships?”
“More like a shipping empire,” his uncle interjected.
Sir Robert raised a brow. “Do you find that surprising, Miss Reynolds?”
“Well, yes.” She had thought him an indulged, well-moneyed London buck. She could imagine family wealth amassed through ill-gotten gains, but it had never occurred to her that he might be a man of industry engaged in something as serious as a shipping enterprise. There was certainly nothing of the sea captain about him. “Have you sailed?”
His eyes fixed on the reins in his gloved hands, he said, “Once or twice.”
“My nephew, Miss Reynolds,” put in the vicomte, “is a talented navigator, a man of coveted skill on the sea.”
Sir Robert blushed, that is, if a rogue can blush. “The ships belong to Powell and Sons Shipping, the family business.”
“How many brothers have you?” she asked.
“Two older and a twin, five minutes younger.”
“And Robbie never lets Nash forget it,” said the vicomte, laughing.
“How about you, Miss Reynolds,” the uncle asked her. “Tell us of your family.”
“I have two sisters, one older and one younger. My father is a country squire and an eccentric designer of men’s shoes and boots.”
“Chastity designs ladies’ shoes as her hobby,” said Rose. She extended her half boot. “A sample of her talent.”
“An unusual pursuit for a lady,” said Sir Robert, appearing to admire the blue half boot though it occurred to Chastity he could well be admiring Rose’s ankle instead.
Rogue’s Holiday Page 6