by Jenna Jaxon
Tonight, however, he had a different motive for his presence: the relinquishing of Miss Amanda Sharpe.
He’d met his father earlier this afternoon, showed him Amanda’s note and, with his father’s full approval, finally won his wager. The racing stable would begin construction out at his father’s estate in Berkshire, very handily situated to many of the major racetracks. That particular estate was not usually the heir’s residence, but his father had seen the sense of the stable being built in closer proximity to the tracks than Cumberland.
His victory had rung hollow, however. He’d have to make do with Lady Edith as his wife now. The settlements were scheduled to be signed next Monday morning. So tonight he’d have to inform Amanda that he would not be able to offer for her after all. His throat constricted at the thought.
Plague take it, he’d escaped the leg-shackle a dozen times or more in the past six years. It wasn’t as if he’d never led a young lady astray before. Amanda—perhaps it would be best to think of her as Miss Sharpe again—Miss Sharpe had a fortune more than adequate to attract another gentleman of the ton, not to mention her lively spirit and comely appearance. If only she didn’t display her cold-blooded tendencies at cards, or her relentless strategizing, she could likely still be married by the end of the Season. A smile flitted across his lips. He’d wager he was the only gentleman for whom ruthlessness would number as part of her charms. Still, any man would be lucky to have such a lady. Just not him.
Fixing his gaze on the doorway in anticipation of seeing Amanda as soon as she entered, he jumped when Lady Celinda Graham seized his arm and dragged him behind a pillar. The fire that blazed in the woman’s eyes made him step back smartly. From the look of her, he’d not lay odds that the lady didn’t intend to plant him a facer. The last time he’d seen such fury in someone’s face, he’d gotten his nose broken.
“Somersby, I do not know what game you are playing with my dear friend, Miss Sharpe, however, let me be perfectly frank.” Lady Celinda drew herself up to her full, if short, height and leaned toward him. “We both know what you did to Jenny Crowley at Christmas, or attempted to do. I refuse to stand by and allow Miss Sharpe to be treated in the same despicable fashion.” Lady Celinda raised her finger toward him.
Thinking she meant to stab him with it, he jumped back again. The woman had gone mad.
“Come back here, weasel.” Discarding her breeding completely, she wagged an indignant finger in his face. “Miss Sharpe is a sweet and spirited young lady, who has, against my excellent advice to the contrary, defended you as a good and trustworthy gentleman. Someone deserving of respect and even admiration. Now she has indicated to me that she believes you mean to marry her.”
Dear God, had anyone seen this contretemps? A quick glance from side to side told him no. He wasn’t certain which would actually be the better outcome—to garner assistance from someone to put a stop to Lady Celinda’s rant or hope no one had seen them and therefore be given the off chance it would not become the on-dit of the evening. As he could not intervene and lay hands on the lady to quieten her, he supposed the former solution might have more merit.
Glaring at him with a fervor that would have shriveled weaker men, Lady Celinda did, in fact, now poke his chest with her forefinger. “If that is not the case, Somersby, you had best beware. You may think she is without friends, but you mark this well: if you disappoint Miss Sharpe, you will be made to pay. By whatever means I can bring to bear on you or your family, I will do so. I swear it. And although you may think me but one weak woman, know that I have kinsmen and friends who will assist me in whatever I ask of them if it will bring you to your knees.”
The menace in Lady Celinda’s voice struck a cold chord deep in his soul. The woman numbered Alec Isley among her friends. He rubbed his nose and winced.
“Ignore me at your—”
“What do we have here, Lady Celinda?” Never had the slightly nasal tones of Eric Conroy’s voice been so welcome to Richard’s ears. “Is brawling at Almack’s a new part of the patroness’s requirements for young ladies? I think they should charge more for the vouchers if so. Much more entertaining than all this infernal dancing.”
“Mr. Conroy.” Lady Celinda turned her heated gaze on the newcomer, making Eric stop and take a step back. “I believe you had better escort me to my mother before things are said or done that, while I will not regret them, will be unfortunate nonetheless.” Whipping back around to face Richard, Lady Celinda pierced him with her gaze. “Lord Somersby, you had best take heed.”
Without further speech, she propelled Eric toward Lady Ivor, who was talking to Mrs. Doyle.
Mrs. Doyle. Christ. That meant Amanda was here as well. He spun around, trying to take in every face in the ballroom. Impossible. Still, he had to find her before Lady Celinda or who knew who else accosted her. His gaze darted to and fro, searching for the face he’d come to recognize easily in a crowded room. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Where was she?
There. The spinning room seemed to still as he focused on the beautiful woman standing near the entrance, chatting with two other young ladies of her acquaintance. He took a deep breath and moved forward to claim his partner.
* * * *
“I had begun to fear I would not see you again, Richard, until I received that glorious bouquet this morning.” Abounding joy washed over Amanda as she gazed into Richard’s face. To think she had not seen him for three whole days. How had she been able to endure it? They had just begun the steps of the opening quadrille and, as the third couple, were awaiting their turn.
“I am so glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled down at her, but there were lines of strain around his eyes. “And you must know that I would never go without taking leave of you, my dear.”
What an odd thing for him to say. She cut her eyes toward him, but then their turn to dance came and they were passing through with the fourth couple, promenading, and creating a chain with a grand right and left.
The dance continued to the end of the first set, when she stole a few moments to ask, “Were you indeed able to speak with your father?”
Before he could answer, they were called into the next figure. This one was much livelier, as was the following figure, and he had no time to answer her until they’d finished the third set in the dance.
“Yes, he is in Town at the moment, and I saw him this afternoon. Amanda…” His stricken face gave her warning that his next words would not be those she’d hoped for. “He is adamant that I marry Lady Edith Fox-Morton. He will disinherit me if I do not.”
Her heart lurched, and her body went numb. Dazed, she stared into his dear face, finding pain there as well. How could this have happened? They were supposed to live happily ever after and now…
The next figure began, and he took her hand, somehow leading her through the steps of the final part of the dance. The ladies and gentlemen of the set whirled by in a blur. How she remained standing, much less dancing, she had no idea. All she could think was that Richard would have to marry another woman. After this dance, she would never speak to him, or dance with him, or see him again. Never, ever kiss him or stand within the grasp of his strong arms as she had so longed to do. She blinked back tears, though first one then another spilled down her cheeks. All she wished to do was sink down on the floor and die.
At last she bowed to Richard and to her side partner, and the dance was finished. She would never dance a quadrille again as long as she lived.
“Please take me to Mrs. Doyle,” she choked out. She had to leave. Had to get away from all these people before she began to sob aloud.
“Amanda.” The break in his voice wrenched a sob from her.
Why would his father be so cruel to him? To them?
“Please, Amanda, you are distraught. Come sit here a moment.” A menacing glare at two young gentlemen occupying a bench against the back wall and they decamped hastily. He led her to the seat and assisted her as she dropped onto it.
Wretched beyond belief
, past caring now what others thought, she leaned forward, head in her hands, and sobbed, her tears trickling down her cheeks and falling through her fingers. She wanted to go home, to Wellesbourne, to her father’s house, and never, never return to London where she might see him again, with another woman—his wife—on his arm.
“Amanda.” Richard’s voice sounded far away, though he stood right beside her. “Please, you must listen to me.”
Sobs still wracked her, though she muffled them as best she could.
“Amanda?” His voice seemed to change, deepen. “Amanda, is that you?”
Confused now, she wiped her eyes on her damp gloves and looked up. Two men stood beside her where before there’d been only one. Someone had come to offer assistance in her distress? She wanted no one to see her like this. Glancing up at Richard, she was struck by the deep suspicion in his eyes. She turned toward the other gentleman, a tall, portly young man, perhaps thirty, with dark hair and a kind, jowly sort of face. Why had he come to her? She did not know him.
“Sir, you are intruding upon a private conversation.” The strain in Richard’s clipped words vibrated like a violin string. “You should retire immediately.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am attempting to speak to my cousin.” Unperturbed, the tall man peered down at her. “Cousin Amanda? You are Miss Amanda Sharpe of Wellesbourne, are you not?”
“Cousin?” Frowning, she sniffed. “I am sorry, sir. I am Miss Sharpe of Wellesbourne, but my only cousin, Mr. Weeks, is dead.”
A large grin spread over the man’s face. “Well, not truly dead, as you see, my dear.”
Eyes widening, Amanda studied his face again. She’d not seen Kit in several years. Could it really be him? The height and hair seemed correct, but his face had been thinner.
“Do you remember the last time we met, you told your parents you were going to visit your friend Nan at the butcher’s and instead you met me and we spent it rambling all over Wellesbourne? You told me one day you would find a way to leave your parents and become a fine young lady.” His gaze took her in, admiration in his look. “You have surely done so, Amanda.”
Then he grinned at her, and it was Kit.
“Kit! Gracious me, it is you. You’re alive.” She bounded up from the chair, launching herself into his arms. “They looked and looked for you all last year. Grandfather was heartbroken when they found no trace of you. Wherever have you been?”
“That is a bit of a tale, and not one for a fancy ballroom.” Kit looked about, shifting from one foot to the other.
“I’d like to know how you came to be here at Almack’s, sir.” Richard spoke up for the first time since Kit revealed his identity, in a gruffer tone than Amanda had ever heard from him. “The patronesses require vouchers in order to enter here. Surely you are not possessed of one?”
“Richard.” Why would he act so surly when he had no claim on her now? Why question her cousin’s presence at all? Still, she must remember her manners. “Lord Somersby, may I present my cousin, Mr. Christopher Weeks. Kit, this is Lord Somersby—” She stopped herself, scarcely knowing how to describe their connection now. “A dear friend of mine.”
“My lord.” Kit bowed then turned to her. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately, cousin?”
“I’ll find Mrs. Doyle. We can return to our townhouse—”
“If you will indulge me, Amanda.” With brows deeply furrowed, Richard broke in, drawing her back from her cousin toward him. “I would like to hear your kinsman’s story as well.”
Confused and perturbed at his persistence, Amanda shook off his hand. “Please sit here, Kit. It is as private a place as you will find in the Assembly Rooms.” Sitting on the end, she patted the place next to her.
Richard continued to stand, his jaw clenched.
“How did you manage to get through the doors without a voucher?” A feat of magic she’d dearly love to know.
“The kindness of Lady Jersey, pure and simple.” He smiled at her and ran a hand around his neck. “I’ve been constantly on the move for two weeks now, from France to Dover last week, then to my home in Shropshire. My mother almost fainted when she saw me, and we spent two days trying to catch up almost a year of news.” His face grew grim. “She told me of Grandfather’s passing and about the decree that because I was presumed dead, you were the heir. So then I struck out for your father’s house, only to be told you were here in London.”
“A veritable Grand Tour of England, Mr. Weeks.” Richard’s frown had deepened, his face darkened with some strange emotion. “And how do you come to be at this particular assembly?”
“I arrived in London this afternoon and went immediately to Grandfather’s solicitors. They informed me that you’d taken a townhouse for the Season and gave me the direction. So at long last, I arrived at your residence, only to find you from home again.” Kit smiled at her. “You certainly are making the most of your Season, cousin.”
She returned the smile, though a little spark of worry ignited in her mind. So much had happened in the past ten minutes, she was quite in a fog. Try though she might, she could not concentrate on anything for long. The loss of Richard devastated her still, though she’d pushed that soul-crushing hurt away with Kit’s miraculous appearance. At the moment, she was tired enough to lie down and sleep for a week.
“Your admittance here, sir?” The antagonism in Richard’s face had become alarming. Did he actually plan to throw Kit out if he didn’t accept his explanation?
“Quite right. Well, I asked to be admitted and was indeed told no one was allowed in without a voucher. I asked to speak to someone in authority, for as I was this close, I told myself I would not give up now. Lady Jersey appeared and heard my plea. It must’ve done the trick for she said it was quite the romantic story and she would therefore make the rare exception and allow me in.”
“Rare indeed. I have only heard of one other such case.” Stone-faced, Richard towered over her, his presence still unfathomable. Why had he not already taken his leave of her? “Fortunate in so many ways.”
“That is very true, my lord. Very fortunate indeed to be alive.” Easing back onto the bench, Kit looked into her face and took her hand. “In fact, some might say I have come back from the dead.”
Startled, Amanda jerked her hand from his. “Back from the dead? What do you mean?”
“Well, it is as freakish a tale as you’d want to hear.” Kit settled back on the bench. “I traveled to France last summer to tour Paris and see the sights I’d heard of for so many years. Our grandfather used to tell me of his adventures as a young man on his Grand Tour. So I set off on a modest tour of my own.” Shifting on the bench, Kit continued. “I was in the city in early July, sitting at a little outdoor cafe sipping coffee, when above me I heard a loud clatter. I looked up to see a huge, burning object hurtling toward me.”
“Oh, no!” Fear shot through Amanda, and she clutched Kit’s arm. “How horrible.”
“It hit me, and I knew absolutely nothing until two weeks ago.”
“And what exactly was this blazing object?” Impatience in his voice, Richard at last sat at the end of the bench. “It sounds like a bag of moonshine.”
“No, it was a chair.”
“A what?” Now as perplexed as Richard, Amanda gazed at her cousin in disbelief.
“I told you it was a freakish tale.” Drumming his fingers on the back of the bench, Kit avoided her eyes and went on. “When I finally came to my senses, the family I’d been living with told me what had occurred. A woman named Sophie Blanchard did an act at the Tivoli Gardens in which she ascended in a balloon and was supposed to set off fireworks. She’d done it many times before, but that night something went wrong. The balloon caught fire, threw the poor woman out of the chair to the street below, killing her, and then the chair came down on me. A French family who lived in the same street rescued me, nursed me back to health, but I had no memory of my past at all. I had nothing with me to identify myself, so they simply ke
pt me. Apparently, as I do speak French, I could understand them and worked for them in their bake shop, cleaning the floors, helping with deliveries and the like for almost a year.”
Amanda had sat, drinking in every word of Kit’s amazing story, spellbound by his tale of woe. It was a miracle her cousin still lived and had come back to the family. She only wished her grandfather could’ve seen him alive once more. He had died thinking Kit dead, though he’d hoped until the end that he lived still. That was why…
The little spark of worry that had niggled her earlier burst into a roaring flame. Grandfather had never made a will, thinking everything would go to Kit. The courts had declared her the heir by default as there was no other living relative. Now there was Kit, who would inherit the fortune that was rightfully his.
And she would have nothing at all.
Chapter 10
Despair washed over Amanda. Not only would she have no funds, she would need to pay back the money she’d spent on clothes, accessories, the townhouse, and any other expenses she’d taken out of Kit’s inheritance. Hundreds of pounds she had no way to repay. The grayness threatened to overtake her again.
“Amanda?” Richard jumped to his feet, grabbed the fan from her wrist, and began to ply it so vigorously wisps of her hair swirled in front of her eyes. “Are you quite all right?”
Trying to fight the faintness that threatened, she nodded. “I will be fine, Richard. Thank you.”
Peering closely at her face, he grunted and waved the fan slower. “You do not look fine, Amanda. You are quite pale.” The concern in his tone twisted her heart cruelly.
“I am terribly sorry my tale has upset you so, Amanda.” Her cousin’s kind face now had worry lines of its own.
“It’s just that I know Grandfather would be so pleased to know you are still alive. He never gave up hope.” She would survive these blows somehow. First thing tomorrow, she’d begin the steps necessary to move back to Wellesbourne. Mrs. Doyle she’d inform tonight about her changed circumstances. Perhaps she could find work of some sort to begin to repay Kit. “I must apologize to you, however, cousin. I fear I have been imprudent in pursuing a Season here in London.”
