by Tarah Scott
“I take it this ill-conceived effort has to do with a certain young lady?” Stirling asked as the footman mopped the spill.
“You, Geoffrey, bring me another bottle,” Robert said to the footman. He turned back to Stirling. “You use the word lady loosely.”
“I find that doubtful.” Stirling nodded toward the footman. “John will ignore your request.” Stirling emphasized the man’s name. “The entire staff will. I’ve had you cut off.”
Robert let out a mumbled curse. The footman departed without looking at him. A glance showed no others near.
“Can’t you leave me to drink myself to death in peace?” Robert asked. He squinted at the older gentleman. “You used to be fun.” He knocked back his drink and realized very little whisky had made its way into his glass.
“Oh, I have something fun planned, never fear.” Stirling stood and gestured again.
Footsteps sounded behind Robert. He craned his neck in an effort to see who approached. Two of the burlier footmen, their faces set, marched toward him. Or was there one and he was seeing the man twice? He blinked several times, but neither of the two disappeared.
Large hands clasped his arms and lifted him from the chair. At least four hands, so at least two of the fellows, then. Or was that three? The empty tumbler slipped free of his grasp to hit the table with a thunk.
The sound drew his attention as the men got him to his feet. Sad empty tumbler. All it wanted was to do its duty by him. So loyal. Not like women.
Stirling appeared at his side, swaying like a storm-tossed schooner. “What do you think, Banbrook, can you walk?”
Robert shook off the hands and straightened. “I most certainly can. What do you take me for?” He raised his chin, endeavoring to stare Stirling down, but his chin wouldn’t stop. It went up and up. Robert’s head tilted back. He’d never taken time to properly contemplate the ceiling of his club before. One always overlooked the details.
Four hands gripped him and stood him upright again when he started to topple backward. Stirling, still swaying, appeared greatly amused. He gestured and the hands began to half walk, half carry Robert.
The faces of other gentlemen at the club moved in a slow spiral around him as they crossed the room. Most were turned his way. Expressions ranged from sympathetic to disgusted. Robert would have taken careful note of who owned the latter, but the names of his peers were strangely absent from his brain. Maybe they were all named Geoffrey. The idea inclined him to laugh, but he didn’t want to amuse Stirling any further.
The hands didn’t toss him from the club as he half-expected, but instead took him up the steps and into one of the private rooms, furnished with a bed, desk, chairs and table. Inside stood a large, full washtub, as well. He had just enough sense to wonder why no steam rose from the tub before he was picked up and plunked, fully clothed, into the chilly water.
In shock, he slid under the surface. He came up gasping for air. Rapid blinking brought Stirling into view beside the tub. Robert unleashed a stream of invectives. Stirling gestured. A large hand settled on Robert’s head and pushed him back under, then let him up immediately.
“Feeling better yet?” Stirling asked as Robert’s head cleared the surface once more.
“You bloody, rat-faced, son-of-a—” A gesture from Stirling. Robert went down into the water again. He flailed at the hand, but it didn’t remain on his head long enough to strike. He pushed himself to the surface, spitting water. “Do you mean to kill me?”
Stirling looked down at him, arms crossed, expression contemplative. “I thought death was your goal.”
“You bloody well know it’s not, you madman. This water is damned cold.”
“Here in Scotland, we call it refreshing.”
“Well I’m a bloody Englishman and I don’t appreciate being dunked in a trough.” Robert pushed a hand over his face, skimming away water. “What are you playing at, Stirling?”
“Playing?” Stirling shook his head. “No. I’ve a favor to ask, actually.”
“A favor?” Robert gaped. He stood. Water streamed from his hair, coat, flattened cravat, everywhere. “This is you asking for a favor?”
“I need you clear-headed enough to comprehend my words.” Stirling’s tone was reasonable, but amusement lurked in his features.
Robert muttered a few choice curses as he stepped over the edge of the tub. Water sloshed across the floor. One of the footmen immediately began to wipe it up. The other offered Robert a towel, his expression neutral.
Robert took the proffered cloth and mopped at his face. “Look what you’ve done to my jacket. My vest.” He let out another curse. “My boots, man. Look what you’ve done to my boots.”
“Put them by the fire. John will take your clothes and see them made right.”
Robert turned to take in the cheery blaze. Now that his vision was clearer, he also noticed a set of clothes laid out, as well as a nightshirt and robe. His clothes. His nightshirt and robe.
He cast Stirling an incredulous look. “You’ve been to my residence?”
“Yes. Your staff are rather worried about you. They haven’t seen you in three days.”
Robert shook his head, bemused. He crossed to the fire, then began stripping his lean frame. Stirling ordered the tub removed and the floor mopped. Robert shucked his sodden attire.
After toweling dry, he took up his robe. His original intention had been to dress, but weariness had settled. What was the point in dressing, after all? Once he heard Stirling out and sent him on his way, Robert could return to drinking just as easily in a private room in his robe as he could in the public room, dressed.
He belted his robe closed, plopped into an armchair and propped his feet on the nearby stool. He watched with little interest as servants gathered his wet garments, sopped up the last of the water and disappeared. The chair was near the fire, the warmth lulling. His eyes closed.
“Now, about that favor.”
Robert forced his lids open to find Stirling seated on the other side of the fireplace. “The answer is no,” Robert muttered.
“All I require is for you to attend three balls.”
“Balls? With dancing?” Robert scowled. “With ladies?”
“That is generally the way of balls.” Stirling rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers before him.
“Can’t. I’ve sworn off women. For good. No more.” Robert shook his head, then regretted the movement as the room bounced. “I will not be jilted a third time, and certainly not again in Scotland. I’m leaving.”
“Oh?” Stirling raised an eyebrow. “Headed back to London, are you?”
Robert looked away from those perceptive eyes. He could never go back to London. Every inch of the city reminded him of Cinthia. “Maybe the Continent. Perhaps even France.”
“France? Do you intend to get yourself shot?”
Robert shrugged. “At least in France, when a man is jilted, he can drown his sorrow in cognac.”
Stirling watched him over his steepled fingers.
Robert resisted an urge to squirm under that gaze. “Or I could hang about Edinburgh for a time. I’ve nothing against Scotland, just women.”
With a sigh, Stirling brought his hands to the chair arms. “Miss Thomas did the right thing, breaking it off with you.”
Robert went rigid. “What did you say?”
“Kitty Thomas did the right thing when she broke your engagement.”
Anger coiled inside Robert.
“Anyone can see you’re still in love with Cinthia.”
Robert’s anger disappeared like summer rain. Cinthia. The real reason he’d come to Scotland. For two years, they’d been engaged. In London, they were the toast of the Ton. Every dance, the theater, the park. Always together. Blissfully happy as they waited for her father to return from his government appointment in India so they could wed.
Then Lord Ailbeart had come along, with Scottish title. He enticed her with his lineage. Whispering that she was meant to be
a member of the peerage, Lady Cinthia, Viscountess Dunreid. Not simply Missus Banbrook.
Fool that he was, Robert hadn’t been worried. He’d believed in her. Believed in their love. Not until the morning he’d called round and learned she’d left for Scotland did he have any idea Viscount Dunreid had succeeded in his conquest.
He passed a hand over his eyes, weary. “What are you after, Stirling? I’ve heard rumors of your new game, matchmaking.” He eyed the other man. “I’m not looking for another woman to propose to. Twice was enough.”
Stirling leaned back in his chair, his expression too innocent to be so. “The last thing I want to do is get some poor girl’s hopes up with an introduction to you. Until you get over Viscountess Dunreid, you aren’t fit for any woman.” He shook his head. “No, I simply need you to help a certain young Miss stave off an aggressive gentleman long enough to find herself a good husband.”
Robert frowned. “Stave off? She doesn’t want to marry this gentleman? At least she’s smart enough to realize as much.”
“Aye, she seems an intelligent sort, but I believe the key issue is the offer of the gentleman in question. He wants her, but he has no intention of making her his wife.”
So, a cad up to no good and apt to tarnish a young lady’s reputation. “I see. She’s in need of protection, then, not one of your quick weddings.” He scrutinized Stirling. “Why don’t you do help the girl?”
“I could, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the honor, or the amusement. Anyone can see you’re in need of a bit of distraction.”
Robert supposed there was some truth in that. Still, “Escorting some young Miss to dances doesn’t sound particularly amusing.” It sounded painful.
A sly grin formed on Stirling’s face. “Oh, I daresay escorting this young Miss is just what you need. That, and a bit of revenge.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You see, Banbrook, Dunreid wants the young lady for his mistress. You, my friend, are going to save her.”
Chapter Three
EMILIA STOOD TO ONE side of the candlelight-bathed foyer of Lady Peddington’s School. She studied the carved wood panels and endeavored to project serene confidence. She knew it was improper, perhaps even brazen, to lurk in the foyer in wait of a man, but she dared not enter the ballroom without her protector.
That he would arrive, she had no doubt. That afternoon, one of the school’s maids, Mary, had delivered a bouquet of pink gillyflowers to Emilia’s room. With the flowers was a note that read, Wear these in your hair tonight - SS. As she’d sent a sketch of herself, the flowers were an insult to her artistic skills, but one she would willingly swallow to have someone by her side to fend off another kiss from Viscount Dunreid.
Each time the school’s stone-faced butler opened the ornate front door to admit more gentlemen, hope coursed through her. Any one of them could be her savior, Sir Stirling James. Each time said gentleman walked past without slowing, her heart fell.
Had she missed him? Earlier, Emilia had glimpsed Viscount Dunreid as he ascended the steps and she ducked into the cloakroom once, much to the shock of the footmen. She hadn’t dared come out for several long moments, until multiple cloaks, hats and greatcoats had been stowed. Perhaps Sir Stirling had entered on the viscount’s heels?
Emilia patted the gillyflowers artfully arranged among her blond ringlets and suppressed a sigh. The influx of gentlemen had waned, and none had approached her yet. If she’d missed Sir Stirling, she would have to enter the ballroom to seek him. That risked Dunreid finding her first.
The butler stepped back from the small window he peered out and pulled open the door with a bow. In sauntered four more gentlemen. They handed coats, walking canes and hats to the footman, who handed them to another, to be placed in the cloakroom behind the artfully hidden door built into the paneling.
Hope sprang to life within her as the men turned to cross the foyer. Emilia dropped her gaze demurely to the inlaid floor in an attempt to be noticeable but not noticed. She didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention, after all.
She kept her gaze downcast as four pairs of polished shoes passed by. None slowed. None turned toward her. The gentlemen chatted amiable, obviously friends. Laughter drifted down the hall in their wake, followed by strands of music. The dancing had begun. Somewhere in the ballroom, her three dearest friends likely clustered together, wondering at her odd behavior of late and her absence.
A twinge of guilt stabbed at the thought of them, clad in their finest gowns, clustered near a wall in hopes a gentleman would ask them to dance. Her three friends hadn’t received flowers, and to inquire if they’d received some other assistance risked breaking her promise to Missus Millview. Unsure she could witness her friends’ despair at their lack of partners without confessing, she avoided them.
“Hiding from me, Miss Glasbarr?” a silken masculine voice said behind her.
Emilia stiffened. Dunreid. He’d found her. She remained facing the door. Perhaps her stiff posture and refusal to turn would discourage him.
He stepped up behind her, too close. His overly-musky cologne seared her nostrils. Heat from his body caused her skin to crawl, as if spiders tiptoed across her shoulders. She looked to the servants, but they’d gone still, gazes locked ahead. With a heartsick sensation, she realized they couldn’t stop the viscount, no matter how he elected to torment her.
“You’ve already given me far more sport than my last mistress.” He exhaled the words against the back of her neck with hot, sticky breath.
Emilia suppressed a shudder.
A gloved finger slid along her skin. “Such an elegant neck shouldn’t go unadorned, and won’t once you’re mine. My pockets are deep and I’m not stingy. I know how to reward a woman who pleases me.”
She stepped away to gain much needed space, then faced him. She tilted up her chin. “I shall never please ye, my lord.”
His smile was warped with condescension. “You already do.”
“No, some idea you have of me does, but I never shall.” She bit off the honorific he clearly didn’t deserve.
His gaze narrowed. He reached for her arm. Emilia stepped back. Dunreid’s expression went flat with displeasure. A long stride brought him to her, her wrist captured before she had time to retreat farther.
Behind her, the servants moved, but not to come to her aid. Rather, toward the foyer door, which she could hear the butler open. She prayed Sir Stirling would enter. She tugged against Dunreid. Her efforts only tightened his grip.
A look of condescension on his face, he yanked her toward him. “Don’t forget what I told you.” His voice was low, touched with vitriol. “No one else will have you. They won’t dare dance with you. You have no choice. It’s me, or no man.”
“Then I’ll die an old maid,” she hissed.
“Now, that would be a shame,” a man’s voice said.
Dunreid’s gaze snapped toward a spot over Emilia’s left shoulder. Dislike flickered in his eyes. He released her with a shove. Emilia stumbled back. Strong hands caught her by the waist and kept her upright. They dropped away as a man stepped up beside her.
Heart pounding, Emilia glanced at her savior askance, almost afraid to take her eyes from Dunreid, lest he put his hands on her again. Was this finally Sir Stirling James, come to save her? She certainly hoped so.
He was taller than Dunreid by several inches, and lean. Even out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his sculpted features, the impression of stone made stronger by the rigid set of his jaw. The cut of his dark hair, shorter than was fashionable, suited him. In every other way, from the gleaming diamond pin in his cravat to his perfectly tailored black tailcoat, he was impeccably modish.
Dunreid pulled his lips into the semblance of a smile. “Banbrook, how good to see you. Come to find a young lady to jilt you? Again.”
Banbrook? Jilt him again? Not Sir Stirling, then.
“Not this time, Dunreid.” Mister Banbrook’s voice was as hard as his countenance. “I’ve s
imply come to thwart you.”
He spoke in a cultured English accent. Not from Edinburgh, then, Emilia realized, as she would have when he first spoke, had she not been fixated on Dunreid. She didn’t have much experience with Englishmen, but he displayed more temper than one expected of them.
“Thwart me?” Dunreid snorted. “As if you could. Put us before a hundred women, and I’ll be chosen over you a hundred times. Why do you set yourself a challenge you will surely lose?”
Emilia could hear the Englishman grind his teeth. “I will not win or lose, merely safeguard this young woman from your advances.”
Dunreid raised his thick brows. “We shall see about that.” He held out a hand to Emilia. “Miss Glasbarr, come dance with me.”
She shook her head. “I will not. Not now, not ever.”
Though she expected anger, Dunreid appeared amused. “So you say, but you’ll soon realize that a man with my class and title can offer you so much more than the likes of Mister Banbrook here. More than you ever dreamed of while whiling away nights in your maidenly bower.” He dropped his gaze to her décolletage.
Emilia brought a hand to her chest and suddenly wished her gown had a higher neckline. Her face burned hot, but she kept her chin up. “I said never, my lord, and I mean never.”
Dunreid shrugged. He dropped his hand and turned his amused look back on Mister Banbrook. “Good luck with this one. She’s got even more fire than Cinthia. Too much spirit for the likes of you.” His grin turned malicious. “Be a good chap and keep her entertained until I’m ready for her—just as you did Cinthia. You’re practiced at that.” He turned and strolled away.
Emilia stared after him. What did his vicious words mean? If she recalled properly, Lady Cinthia was the viscount’s wife. Did this Mister Banbrook know her?
Emilia turned to her savior to ask him, but one glimpse stopped her words. He stood taut as a bowstring, hands balled into fists. His expression was murderous as he watched Dunreid’s retreating form. Though rather handsome, Mister Banbrook was also more than a touch frightening.
She looked around. With the viscount’s exit, they were alone in the ornately paneled foyer, save for the inscrutable servants. Maybe Sir Stirling would still come. Maybe she needed to be saved from two men, for Mister Banbrook looked near violence.
