Pursued by the Rake

by Lancaster, Mary

  “I hope you didn’t mind that we took the curricle,” she said when he had finished his tale. “I thought it would look less odd than the two of us on the horse.”

  “Quite right,” Joe approved. “And you would have had a lot more difficulty bringing the basket on horseback. I’m looking forward to an excellent dinner. Do you cook, Mr. Sprigg?”

  “Of course not,” Bart said with an affronted glare. “Do you?”

  “I have done,” Joe admitted. “But sadly, no one called it an excellent dinner. Not even me.”

  “Who did you cook for?” Hazel asked curiously. “And why? Was it a wager?”

  “Oh, no. I was on an adventure with an Ottoman prince who was very much his own man. He liked to go in disguise among his people to learn about their lives and what troubled them. At the time, we thought he might succeed the present Sultan, so we—of the British embassy—were courting him. I went along on a few of his expeditions. I could light a roaring fire. I could hunt. But the final survival skill of cooking eluded me, according to the prince who howled with laughter for most of the night. At least, he assured me it was laughter and not a sore stomach.”

  Hazel regarded him with humor sparkling in her soft, brown eyes. “I think you made that up to be sure everyone keeps you away from the kitchen.”

  “Don’t you have a similar story?”

  “No. No one ever expected me to cook. Although Amelia taught me to bake cakes. With mixed success.”

  “There, I knew you would wriggle out of it, too.”

  She laughed, a delightfully infectious sound he was growing to treasure.

  “Irene cooks,” Bart said reluctantly. “My aunt made sure she learned. I think she likes it.”

  “Really?” Hazel sounded so doubtful that Joe wanted to laugh again from sheer high spirits.

  By the time they arrived at the vicarage, the three of them were bantering with carefree humor.

  The house still looked shut-up and empty, the only sign of life being Bertie, contently cropping grass in the nearby paddock. But as they approached, the front parlor shutter twitched very slightly. Seconds later, the children came spilling out of the house to launch themselves at Bart with cries both scolding and joyful.

  Joe believed one could tell a great deal from the behavior of children, particularly siblings, and he was relieved to see how the Spriggs greeted their harebrained brother, who appeared to be telling them all about his rescue.

  “If you want to maintain your secrecy,” Joe interrupted, “Bart and I should see to the horses, and the rest of you should go back inside.”

  “I’ll help,” Edward volunteered, while Hazel swept the others up the steps and into the house. “Who is this?” he asked, reaching up to stroke the nose of the new horse. “And why are you riding him with a lady’s saddle?”

  “We’ve yet to name him, and originally we planned Miss Curwen would ride him. But we should probably hide him in the stables along with the grays. We don’t want your farmer noticing them when he comes to see to Bertie.”

  “We won’t run out of hay, will we?” Edward said anxiously as they moved around to the stables at the back of the house.

  “I hope not. Better save the vegetable peelings for them.”

  Once the horses were cared for and the curricle hidden beside an incredibly ancient gig in the carriage house, they went into the vicarage, bolted the door, and discovered the others in the parlor, listening avidly to Hazel’s tale.

  “Sir Joe, you must have been magnificent!” Dennis exclaimed. “I wish I had been there!”

  “We owe you and Miss Hazel a huge debt of gratitude,” Irene said. “Do we not, Bart?”

  “So huge, I will never be able to repay it,” Bart acknowledged ruefully. “I don’t know what piece of luck sent you to visit Amelia at this precise moment, but I have to say, I’m heartily thankful! Only…”

  “Only what?” Joe asked, resting his hip on the arm of Hazel’s chair. It gave him a fine view of her delicate nape and the soft curve of her cheek. And he knew, by the tiniest catch in her breath, that she was as aware of the closeness as he.

  “Miss Hazel is my sister’s old pupil,” Bart said bluntly. “They are friends, and we have met her before. But, forgive me, sir, I’ve no idea who the devil you are.”

  He softened the insult with a quick smile, which Joe appreciated. Bart was, of course, quite right. In charge of his young siblings and feeling responsible for the friend of his sister, he needed to know he didn’t have some kind of scoundrel in the house.

  Surprisingly, it was Hazel who came to his defense. “Sir Joseph is a friend who kindly offered to escort me when I missed the stagecoach,” she said firmly. “He chose to stay here and help rather than return at once to London.”

  “Then I am doubly in your debt, sir,” Bart said awkwardly. “And I beg you will stay and dine with us since we appear to have huge quantities of food.”

  Irene jumped up. “Let me bring you something to eat—you must be starving! And then we can see about dinner. Oh, Sir Joe, I hope you don’t mind. Since you left your own clothes on the back of the sofa, I took the liberty of cleaning them. The things from your pockets are still on the table.”

  Foolishly, he had not noticed that. They lay on the edge of the table in front of Hazel’s chair. And beneath his flask, notecase, and empty purse, was the folded scandal sheet he had picked up at the Blue Boar and stuffed into his pocket. In no hurry to draw attention to that, he merely thanked Irene for her kindness and ignored the small pile of his possessions.

  “I think, you know,” Hazel said to Bart after a while, “that you should tell us what on earth led you to highway robbery.”

  “And how you got caught,” Edward said with disapproval.

  Bart groaned. “Very well, I’ll tell the whole sorry story over luncheon.”

  “In that case, I’ll go and help Irene,” Louise said at once, bounding to her feet. “That way, we’ll get to the story more quickly!” In her hurry, she brushed past the low table, catching the edge of the newspaper, and everything tipped onto the floor.

  Joe bent to retrieve it, but both Louise and Hazel were before him, so he could only straighten again.

  “I believe I shall go and change into something more respectable before we eat,” he said easily, providing himself with an excuse to sweep up his recovered possessions at the first opportunity.

  “I should, too,” Bart said, shaking out his disreputable sleeve. “You can use my chamber, sir. Come, I’ll show you the way.”

  Standing, Joe bent to collect his things from the table. But he was too late. Perhaps the princess’s name had caught her eye. Whatever the reason, Hazel held the news rag in one hand as though frozen, staring at the front article. She looked…stricken.

  He had hoped to keep it from her until it no longer mattered. But there was nothing he could do now. He strolled out of the room with Bart, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder. But there was no cry of outrage or horror, no hysterics or fury from the princess’s angry handmaiden, just a silence that for some reason, hurt him.

  Irene had hung his coat and pantaloons in Bart’s chamber, and beside them, she had placed a clean shirt, stockings, and drawers, presumably purloined from the absent vicar.

  “You should sleep here for tonight,” Bart offered. “I’ll inflict myself on the boys next door.”

  “There’s no need,” Joe assured him, pulling off his tattered coat. “I slept very well in the parlor.”

  “There is every need,” Bart said firmly. “Let me just grab a few things, and I’ll get out of your way.”

  Joe took off his borrowed garb, washed thoroughly in the clean, lukewarm water he found on the washstand, then shaved with the razor he found there.

  Dried and dressed once more as a gentleman, he descended the stairs. To the left of the staircase was the parlor, to the right, the vicar’s study. When he had gone up, the study door had lain open. Now it was shut.

  It was as if
he knew she was in there. He didn’t hesitate, let alone knock to give her the chance to refuse him. He simply pushed the door open and walked in.

  Hazel knelt on the rug in front of the empty fireplace, staring at the newspaper in her lap. It was still folded at the same story. There were tear stains on her face, but she seemed unaware of them.

  She looked up quickly when he entered and closed the door, but to his surprise, she didn’t immediately ask him to leave or even try and hide.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” she said listlessly. “When you saw me at the Blue Boar.”

  “I’d half-read it,” he admitted. “Because it mentioned the princess. But I’d hoped you were well away from Connaught Place. I didn’t know your surname, so I didn’t recognize you from any of the initials.”

  She stabbed her fingernail at the paper. “There I am, Miss H.C. in the midst of the night’s debauchery where also were present vast quantities of finest wines and brandies, more food than you could eat, and several of London’s most prominent rakes. This is worse, far worse than any of us dreamed. We thought there might be talk if we could not deny our presence there, but this! How does one ever recover from this?”

  He walked across the room and crouched in front of her. “Then you were there. Did anyone hurt you?”

  She stared at him, as though uncomprehending, then dragged one shaking hand through her hair, loosening several pins. “This has upset my mind. I think I hate that more than anything. Do you know, when I read this, it even entered my head that you had accosted me at the Blue Boar because you thought I would….” She broke off at the impossibility of the words.

  “Oblige me?” he suggested. “Accept my drunken efforts at seduction?”

  A sound halfway between a sob and a laugh trembled in her throat. “And then I remembered you had told me you would be incapable for at least eight hours. And in any case, you never liked me.”

  “I always liked you.”

  He spoke casually, but for some reason, it caught her attention. She met his gaze, the slightest frown tugging at her brow.

  “No one hurt us physically,” she said hurriedly. “We locked ourselves in the sitting room, thinking the princess would come out at any moment. We didn’t know she had already left London.”

  “Didn’t you go in to tell her such outrages were going on in her house?”

  “Why, no, because we thought she was with—” She broke off, blushing furiously.

  “You thought she was with me,” he said blankly.

  “We thought that a good thing,” she said as though suddenly anxious to appease him. “For we knew you could put a stop to the chaos downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I think. But what I don’t understand is, what were four of you doing there in the first place, when the princess had already left with the ladies who were to accompany her?”

  “It was my turn for duty, and I’d received no word that I should not go. I thought Her Highness was taking me with her. The others had letters summoning them.”

  He frowned. “Written by the princess herself?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine so. But this is rubbish!” She hurled the news rag from her. “Hardly anyone saw me in the house, and I doubt many more people saw the others before I arrived. Where can they have got this nonsense from?”

  “And how did it get out so early in the morning?” Joe murmured. “This was in the Blue Boar by six. Who did see you there?”

  “A footman—Harold, I believe. I think he was stealing some wine or perhaps crockery the princess had left behind. There didn’t seem to be any other servants in the house. If they were there, they were hiding belowstairs. Then there were some drunken young bucks—Elmsley, I think, and his friend Granton spoke to me. And Lord Barden was there.”

  “Barden?” Joe repeated. “What was the Regent’s snake doing there?”

  “Do you think him a snake?” Hazel was glad in some ways to have her poor opinion of his lordship confirmed, though she felt compelled to add honesty, “He negotiated more than one truce between the prince and princess over the years.”

  “I’m sure he negotiated more than one war, too. Interesting.”

  “It might be interesting to you,” she retorted. “My reputation is ruined forever, as are those of the other young ladies who are equally innocent. But at least they have powerful families to protect them. My father is at sea, and I have no means now of earning my living.” She straightened suddenly. “I could use a false name! Amelia would probably give me a reference…providing her husband doesn’t see that.”

  “Hardly appropriate reading for a vicar.” He picked the newspaper up, meaning to throw it into the grate and set fire to it. But on impulse, he paused and tore out the offending columns. “If you can bear it, read the article again and tell me where you think the information came from. Then we’ll burn it.”

  “I’m not sure it matters where it came from. I can’t fight it.”

  “Of course you can,” he said bracingly. “It’s no more than a scandal sheet, despised even by those who read it. There will be a way to disprove or at least discount this nonsense.” He rose and stretched his hand down to her. She took it automatically, and he drew her to her feet. “I’ll help you.”

  A frown flickered on her brow and vanished. “Why?” she asked helplessly. “You have no reason to be so kind to me.”

  Don’t I? His motivations in driving her from the Blue Boar after a heavy and entertaining night’s carousing were somewhat hazy now, but they hadn’t all been pure. Mixed with a little chivalry, there had definitely been a little excitement at the prospect of spending time in her company and breaking down those aloof, disapproving barriers. And a little desire. Well, a lot of desire. And she had no idea of her effect on him.

  Her hand lay trustfully in his. She stood so close that he could smell her light, yet exotic scent that reminded him of the east and yet was uniquely her own. The lingering tear stains did not detract from her beauty, merely roused in him a tenderness he wasn’t used to. Her shapely lips, slightly parted as she gazed up at him, were an acute temptation. But even for a kiss, he could not shatter her trust in him.

  To distract himself, he raised her hand and lightly kissed her fingers.

  “I’m not kind,” he said ruefully, releasing her. “I just follow the fun and my own curiosity.”

  “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” she said. “But thank you for what you did this morning. And for letting me cry on your shoulder.”

  He brushed off his right shoulder. “It is always at your disposal.”

  She laughed. “Then shall we go to luncheon?”

  “You might want to wash your face first.”

  She flushed. “Oh, dear, that bad? Then I really did cry. I was too angry to notice.”

  “Of course you were,” he murmured.

  It surprised a breath of laughter from her as she bent and picked a reticule from the floor where she had been sitting and rummaged inside. She emerged with a pretty little crystal bottle and a wispy handkerchief.

  “Rosewater,” she explained, turning away from him, perhaps in search of a mirror.

  “Come here.”

  As she looked back in surprise, he took the handkerchief from her and let her pour drops of rosewater on to it. Then, one hand on her shoulder, he gently wiped her face. He liked the intimacy, although she blushed under his ministrations. Her translucent skin was wonderfully soft. The bones of her face felt delicate, like a bird’s.

  Returning the handkerchief to her, he retrieved her loosened pins and fixed the straggling locks of golden-brown hair. He had rather liked the rumpled effect, although it made him think of sweet seduction. With an effort, he kept his focus on his task and had his reward when, newly fresh and neat once more, she smiled at him.

  “You do that with too much ease,” she observed with mock reproof.

  “What, play the lady’s maid? I have sisters, you know. And no skill is too lowly for a diplomat.�
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  “I don’t believe I should ask about the circumstances of such skills.”

  Something had changed since yesterday. Her disapproval was merely teasing now. Also, she took his arm quite naturally to walk to the dining room, and he rather liked that, too.

  Chapter Six

  Hazel had never imagined that the arrogant rake, who had once sauntered out of the princess’s bedchamber so casually, would one day repin her hair and wipe tear stains from her face, all without taking liberties.

  And yet, she wasn’t unmoved by the touch of his fingers, the intensity of his gaze, or the warmth of his casual hand on her shoulder. Her whole body tingled with awareness as she walked with him into the dining room. She had a friend who, whether or not he could help her, would stand by her.

  There was more, much more to Sir Joseph Sayle than she had ever dreamed at that first encounter.

  The children called him Sir Joe, which he must have encouraged at some point, for he accepted it quite naturally. Bart quickly picked up the habit, too, and the luncheon, delightfully prepared by Irene with the help of her little sister, was a merry meal.

  At everyone’s insistence, Bart told the story of his attempt at highway robbery.

  “The first was easy,” he said. “An angry, impatient young man. I took his coachman by surprise, bolting out of the hedgerow in front of him and bravely waving my pistol—which wasn’t even loaded, by the way,” he added to Hazel. “Anyway, the coachman was forced to stop, and the sole occupant threw his purse at me before commanding the driver to make haste.”

  “I expect he did,” Sir Joseph observed. “Straight to the law.”

  “Probably,” Bart admitted. “But the ease of the thing made me euphoric and reckless, convinced I was born to be a gentleman of the road. Dick Turpin himself would have envied me! Until, after a tediously long wait, another coach came along, and I managed to stop this one, too. Inside were two old gentlemen who point-blank refused to deliver up the readies. I hadn’t planned for such a reaction, and I had no idea what to do. Even if the gun had been loaded, I could hardly have shot the old codgers, could I?” He shook his head.