The Rake's Retreat

by Nancy Butler

  He grumbled, “I didn’t set the blasted thing on fire. I just wanted to dispose of Perret as quickly as possible, until Sir Richard could send someone after the body. There were some lads coming along the lane as I rode off—maybe they set the fire. It was bad enough I had to kill the man, but then to hear he’d been roasted afterward…” Kip shuddered. “And there was a chit in the woods who witnessed the murder. Screamed her head off like a banshee before she ran away. That’s why I couldn’t leave Perret where he was.”

  “Small blessings,” Bryce said. “I mean, that you didn’t leave a dead man in my cow pasture. By the by, the banshee’s name is Lovelace Wellesley and she happens to be residing under this very roof. Hiding out from you, as it were. I owe you a debt of gratitude for sending her to take refuge here.”

  Kip looked baffled. “I thought Troy’s sister was the one who’d taken your fancy.”

  “She is. But she’d never have come here if it wasn’t for Lovelace. Now if the Minstrels would only turn up and cart the girl off to London, I could get on with my life.”

  “The Minstrels?” Kip appeared even more baffled.

  “Nothing. Just another muddle I’ve been hoping to clear up, along with the milk fever, the grippe, and the death-watch beetles.”

  “I gather it hasn’t been a bed of roses for you this past month.”

  “It’s been…challenging. I only hope the old man appreciates my sacrifice.”

  Kip’s voice lowered. “How is he, Beech? I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him yet.”

  “It’s too soon. I only hope that the climate can work a cure.”

  “The doctors told him that—”

  “Hang the doctors,” Bryce muttered. “He needs one of us with him. To see that he doesn’t overtax himself. If you would end this game of cat and mouse you are playing, I could leave the Prospect in your hands and sail off to Barbados.”

  He squirmed a bit. “I’m sorry all this has fallen on your shoulders.”

  “I can barely wait for you to return to the land of the living, so you can take over the damned place.”

  “Oh, no.” Kip put his hand up. “I’m not cut out for this farming business. The sea is my life.”

  “I think intrigue is your life. But I am at least reassured that you are fighting for the right side. I rode to Romney this afternoon and spoke with a few of my old smuggler friends. Real smugglers, not spy smugglers. They’d seen someone who fit your description near the Marsh…but they were hesitant to tell me who you were keeping company with. That Tarne is an ugly customer, from all accounts.”

  “You thought I was working for the French?”

  Bryce ran his tongue over his teeth and shrugged. “You thought the same of me.”

  “Christ, Beecham, I never did. It’s just that I’ve always wondered where you got your blunt from, after Father cut you off.”

  “That’s my affair.”

  “Well, if you can’t tell your own brother…”

  “Look who’s talking,” Bryce said with a grin. “And Kip”—his brother turned in the opening to the passage—“I’m very glad you’re still alive. Now, if you could just endeavor to stay that way…”

  The panel slid closed, but Bryce heard the muted laughter through the wall.

  God bless Kip, he thought.

  Chapter Ten

  It was shortly before noon the next day when Jemima left her room. She managed to reach the stable without meeting up with her brother or her host, which marched nicely with her plan to avoid all men—she was that out of charity with their gender. She needed all her courage to face her nemesis later in the day and couldn’t afford being rattled by a chance encounter with Bryce. Last night he had invaded her dreams, which shouldn’t have surprised her, as he had also invaded her waking thoughts with increasing and disturbing frequency. And she had no armor against such an onslaught—when love struck, she now knew, it was with an errant arrow, at best.

  She’d spent the morning mooning over her hot chocolate, again trying to fathom his behavior toward her last night. What had brought on the unlikely chivalry he’d displayed by refusing to take her into his bed? Especially since he’d spent the past days in dogged pursuit of that goal. Her only answer was so preposterous that it didn’t even warrant consideration.

  But whatever his motivation, his selfless concern for her honor had battered down the last of her defenses. By turning her away, he had won her heart—that formerly steadfast organ—and she was as ill at ease at the loss of it as she imagined Bryce would be at the gaining of it.

  Jemima asked one of the stable lads to ride out with her. She intended to visit the ailing tenant farmers, a plausible reason to delay her encounter with her nemesis, who was due to arrive at midday. It was unlikely, she now believed, that she would come to any harm from him while under Bryce’s watchful eye, but that didn’t mean she wanted to rush into company with the man.

  When she spotted Mr. MacCready riding along the lane that led from the Iron Duke, she hailed him with pleasure. They spent a pleasant hour together, and when they parted at last, she carried away the bailiff’s firm opinion that Mr. Bryce was the only man fit to inherit the Prospect. He had further conveyed to her the general consensus that old Mr. Bryce was dicked in the nob to have written his eldest son out of his will.

  Jemima entered the drawing room before dinner with a stouthearted determination not to show fear. Kimble and Carruthers were seated beside Lovelace on the sofa, expressions of rapt admiration on their well-bred faces. That didn’t take long, she thought, chuckling silently. Bryce was near the windows, in conversation with Troy and Armbruster. He looked up as she came into the room, a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. But before he could move in her direction, Armbruster had crossed over to her.

  “Dearest Lady Jemima,” he said as he took up her hand. “Such a delight to see you again.”

  “Mr. Armbruster,” Jemima said evenly as he lifted her hand to his mouth.

  Carruthers and Kimble had both risen from the sofa, and each in turn made his bow to her. “London has been but a pale shadow of itself, without you there to brighten its avenues,” Carruthers pronounced.

  “Watch that,” Troy called out, “You’re treading on my turf with all that folderol.”

  “I have been gone from London less than a week,” Jemima pointed out to the brown-haired dandy.

  “Ah, but each day is an eternity without your presence,” he murmured smoothly.

  Offering him a fleeting smile, she sat beside Lovelace. “We’d do well to ignore them,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Lovelace agreed with a grin. “I doubt I have heard so much fustian in so short a time.”

  “Ladies, you wound me,” Carruthers protested, his hand over his heart.

  “We had no idea when Troy asked us to stay here,” Kimble said, shooting a smug grin at Carruthers as he sat down beside Lovelace, coopting the only available space on the sofa, “that we’d have not one, but two fair ladies gracing us with their presence.”

  Carruthers added, “Miss Wellesley has just been telling us about her misadventure in the woods.”

  “Oh?” said Jemima in some confusion as she turned to Lovelace. “I thought we weren’t…that is…” She looked up at the two men. “You see, we were instructed to secrecy by the Runner from Bow Street.”

  Lovelace was instantly dismayed. “Oh, Lady J, I never meant—”

  “Don’t concern yourself.” Kimble smiled at the girl with genial reassurance. “We are all friends here, are we not, Lady Jemima? And if Miss Wellesley restricts her audience to the gentlemen present, why then you may be assured the tale will not pass from this room.”

  Jemima soon forgot the matter when Carruthers inquired after her Aunt Sophie, who was one of his grandmother’s bosom bows. As she dutifully detailed her aunt’s sojourn in the Lake Country, she watched Kimble doing his manful best to disguise his admiration for Lovelace, who was furnishing him with a meticulously detailed account of her br
ush with murder.

  “Do you ride, Miss Wellesley?” Kimble asked when she at last paused for a breath.

  Lovelace nodded. “A little. I portrayed Lady Godiva last year in Devon; outdoors it was and in a high wind”—both gentlemen began attending her with increased interest—“but my horse grew agitated and refused to take the stage. It was very mortifying to play Lady Godiva while being pushed about in a wheelbarrow, I can tell you that.”

  The two men looked properly abject, though not quite for the reason Lovelace had intended. Jemima grinned and then looked across at Bryce; he was attending their conversation with narrowed eyes.

  “Perhaps you and Lady Jemima might ride out with us, Miss Wellesley,” Kimble continued. “I fancy a look at Bryce’s property—my father is forever after me to spend time on our estate in Cheshire.”

  Carruthers snorted. “Not that there’s much left of it, after your pater paid off your brother’s gaming debts.”

  Kimble shot him a look of irritation, but then said pleasantly, “I don’t suppose there are any particular sights to be seen here. You know—Norman ruins, standing stones, quarries…”

  “There is a trout stream,” Jemima said, rolling her eyes. She then added, “And there is a limestone cave…in a ravine near the east boundary. Bryce took me there earlier this week. But unfortunately the entrance had been sealed off with rocks, and we couldn’t get inside.”

  “I cannot ride in any case,” Lovelace said fretfully. “Not until my ankle mends.”

  “Then we will stay close by and seek to distract you,” Kimble said.

  * * *

  By the time dinner was announced, Jemima was breathing more easily. She had fallen back on drawing room banter to see her through, and so had managed to keep Troy’s friends, if not at bay, at least from seeing how edgy she was. Bryce was watching her, she knew, even though he kept his distance. His eyes probed hers whenever their glances chanced to meet, and so she spent dinner gazing down into her plate and speaking only when she was spoken to. If her nemesis was paying her any special attention she was not aware of the fact. She was thankful that Lovelace possessed such a nonstop stream of amusing tales, and for once did not begrudge the girl all the attention she received.

  “Your brother’s friends are so charming,” Lovelace said as she and Jemima made their way toward the drawing room after dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their customary excesses in port, cigars, and braggadocio. “Especially Mr. Kimble. He is not precisely handsome, but he has such a pleasing manner.”

  “Bryce thought their company would help to distract you,” Jemima said.

  “They treated me like a lady.” Lovelace sighed as she seated herself on the sofa. “Even Troy does, when he is not teasing me. It makes me feel…well, quite special.”

  Jemima sank down beside her and said in a voice she hoped was not too prim, “Try not to let them turn your head, Lovelace. When you are the toast of London, you will undoubtedly have any number of young bucks tossing rose petals at your feet. So you must learn to tread carefully if you are not to step on the thorns.”

  Lovelace giggled. “There aren’t any thorns on rose petals, Lady J. But I take your meaning. Young men do offer all sorts of flummery, but I’m not so green as to think they are in earnest.”

  Then you are a wiser creature than I am, Jemima responded silently.

  * * *

  By the time the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Jemima was beginning to think her fears were groundless. Perhaps her assailant had forgotten the incident in the country house, perhaps he had been too drunk to even recall it. There was also the possibility that he regretted his actions and had no intention of causing her any further distress. She relaxed then and offered to accompany Lovelace on the piano. While the girl sang a series of country ballads, Jemima lost herself in the music, letting the room and all its inhabitants drift far into the background. Well almost all its inhabitants.

  When a man’s hand touched upon her shoulder, she grinned to herself. Was Bryce possibly making a public claim to her with that gesture? She turned to smile up at him and her fingers slipped to the wrong chord. The man leering down at her was not her host.

  Her hands started to tremble and lost their place on the keyboard, as the pressure of the man’s fingers increased slightly. Lovelace’s song drifted to a halt.

  “Please, sir!” Jemima hissed up at him. “You are distracting me.” He leaned to her ear. “I live to distract you, Jemima.” After he returned to his seat on the sofa, Jemima mumbled an apology and began to play again, forcing herself to concentrate on the music. When the song ended, she looked up at last. Bryce was standing at the very back of the room, his glass of brandy held near his chin. His face was in shadow, but she could have sworn his eyes were ablaze with light. He moved forward and said in a languid, relaxed voice, “Gentlemen, I believe we have taxed these ladies enough tonight.”

  Troy rose. “I’m for my bed, Bryce. These scoundrels kept me up till cock’s crow last night and I’m completely done in.”

  To Jemima’s relief the party broke up then. She attached herself to Lovelace, saw her to her room and stayed there, chatting idly, until she was sure all the gentlemen were abed.

  * * *

  Bryce watched Jemima’s bedroom door from the darkest portion of the hall. He had settled himself in a window seat that was partially obscured by a large potted palm. Nearly half an hour had passed before he saw a solitary figure making its way toward him from the wing where Troy’s friends were quartered. He tucked his feet back into the shadows as the man knocked softly on Jemima’s door. When there was no response he knocked again.

  “Who is it?” Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Troy,” the man replied. “I need to talk to you.”

  The door opened a crack. The man thrust his body through the opening, forcing his way into the room. As the door began to close, Bryce moved like a shot across the carpet. He shouldered his way through the entrance before the lock could be turned.

  Jemima stood in the middle of the floor, her face ghost white in the candlelight, except for two splashes of crimson high up on her cheeks. Her hands were clenched against the skirts of her dressing gown as she stared openmouthed at the wide-set man before her.

  Harold Armbruster spun to face Bryce with an expression of surprise, which then twisted into a sneering smile. “Treading on your turf am I, Bryce?” he inquired sanguinely. “But I believe I can claim a prior…um, connection.”

  Bryce saw Jemima’s complexion turn a sickly gray. He stepped past Armbruster and clasped his hand over her arm. “Don’t you dare swoon,” he ordered gruffly.

  She threw her head back and drew a deep, steady breath. “I’m fine.”

  He turned back to Armbruster, who had not moved from the spot where he stood. The man outweighed Bryce by a stone or more and, in spite of his thickening waistline, he was known to be handy with his fists in the boxing ring.

  “Please excuse us, Ma’am,” Bryce said smoothly. He grasped Armbruster’s shoulder and tried to shift him toward the door. “Mr. Armbruster has apparently wandered into the wrong bedchamber by mistake.”

  Armbruster shook off his hand and laughed softly. “Give over, Bryce, there’s a good fellow. I know you rakes hate to surrender the field to any man, but this lady and I have an understanding.”

  “Understand this,” Bryce snarled, trying to keep the red-hot rage that was coursing through him at bay, at least until they were away from Jemima. “You will leave her room this instant. And you will leave this house before daybreak. I do not welcome men of your ilk under my roof.”

  “Only room for one cock in the henhouse, eh?” Armbruster chuckled. His gaze slid to Jemima, who nearly wilted back before that oily perusal. “For myself, I’m not adverse to sharing.” He tapped one finger on Bryce’s chest and said silkily, “And from what I know of your reputation, old chap, neither are you.”

  Bryce felt it then, the fierce jolt of his past crimes slamming i
nto him, brought home by Armbruster’s gleeful assumption that any woman beneath the same roof as Beecham Bryce was fair game for dalliance. Bryce knew then that he had sullied Jemima merely by offering her his hospitality. He might just as well have taken her last night, rather than giving in to his conscience and standing away. He could have had her, and made truth of the lie that would surely spread through London, once Armbruster returned there with his poisonous tongue.

  With inarticulate fury he thrust the man away from Jemima, catching his arm by the wrist and twisting it up behind his broad back. Armbruster bellowed in rage. Bryce tightened his hold and growled, “If you make another sound, I will break your arm like a twig. I swear it.” He dragged him to the door and motioned Jemima to open it. She flew across the room and swung it wide.

  “Lock it,” he ordered brusquely as he tugged Armbruster out into the hall.

  “We are going to have a nice little chat,” he muttered as he strong-armed the man toward his room. Armbruster twisted and writhed, but Bryce’s anger had lent him a nearly superhuman strength. When they got to Armbruster’s chamber, Bryce kicked open the door and swung the man inside. A single candle burned on the nightstand. Bryce released him and quickly stepped back out of range of his fists.

  “Have you gone mad!” Armbruster cried, as he tried to rub the feeling back into his arm. “Christ, man, you fly to defend the chit as though she were untouched. I know better, even if you don’t.”

  “I am not here to discuss Lady Jemima’s virtue,” Bryce responded, trying to regain his composure. “But I will tell you this—if I hear anything to her detriment in London, anything the least slanderous, I will know whose foul tongue was at work, and I will see that you suffer for it.”

  Armbruster made a noise of disparagement. “And who has appointed you guardian over her? Troy lets her go her own way, he always has. If her own brother sees fit to let her become a byword—”