Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  “I still don’t like the idea of you selling yourself to him,” he growled. “Even marrying me would be better.”

  His shock at his own words was easily identifiable, and Iona laughed as they stepped into the brisk autumn day, on a side street and not the busy thoroughfare they’d earlier traversed. “Marrying you after we claim the reward and enrich our coffers, correct? Then you’d have to sponsor another come-out for Isobel to choose a husband so Mortimer can’t marry her off. And we’d spend the rest of our newly-acquired funds hiring lawyers or killers to remove him from our home so Isobel might return there. It’s a very generous thought, my lord, but probably not practical.”

  Although marriage to the Earl of Ives and Wystan seemed like a lovely dream to her. He was a good man. He owned Wystan, where she could be very happy. He wanted to visit Italy, which she’d love to do—in the winter, when her bees slept.

  But he needed wealth, and she didn’t have it. He lived in London and would rightfully expect her to do so as well. She couldn’t take her bees to London. It took love to overcome such obstacles, and she didn’t think the earl had that sentiment in him.

  He gloomily pondered her eminently practical response. She could sense his war of emotions. That he wanted her enough to even make such a suggestion warmed her all the way through. It was good not to be suffering unrequited lust.

  Before he could respond, a towering, heavyset brute in malodorous rags stepped from an alley to block their path. “Unhand her, ye scalawag! Her da wants her back.”

  The brute grabbed her arm, and more ragged urchins popped out of doorways and alleys, rushing to surround them.

  Iona screamed at her highest pitch to attract attention. Yanking the filthy knife from her waistband, she struck the hand holding her. Unsurprisingly, the blade was dull. The heavy fist tightened around her cuff, and he knocked the knife flying.

  The normally imperturbable earl roared in a voice so loud it may have shaken a few tiles from the roof.

  Dropping his insouciant pose, Ives smashed a gloved fist into her attacker’s jaw. He followed the punch with an ungentlemanly blow of his walking stick knob considerably lower, in a place that caused her captor to howl in agony and release her wrist to cover his privates.

  While the thug was bent over, the earl slammed the length of the stick on his thick neck, and toppled him.

  With her arm free, Iona used both hands to swing her stick at the clamoring urchins surrounding them. A few had cudgels, but with their major opponent laid flat, the earl used his ebony stick as a staff to beat them back. Between them, they held off their attackers, although their foes’ strength was in numbers, not size, and they weren’t retreating.

  While Iona tried to mentally connect with the drowsy bees, one rascal yanked her weapon away. She lost her concentration when another grabbed at her old wool skirt, tugging and pushing and attempting to separate her from the earl. Removing a hatpin, Iona kicked and screamed and stabbed every hand gripping her.

  A few bees lazily descended but not enough for Iona to use as weapon. She needed her own queen to communicate her fear.

  Lord Ives grabbed an urchin by the collar and flung him on top of the fallen miscreant, who groaned even more. He smacked a few more with his stick, far harder than she’d managed to do, dislodging stronger grips.

  Finally, her screams brought men running, and behind them, she could hear the screech of a police whistle.

  That shrill signal sent the pack scurrying back into their holes.

  Collapsing from emotional exhaustion as much as physical, Iona hugged Lord Ives’ waist, clinging to him as he caught his breath. He squeezed her briefly, then set her aside to stomp his boot on the large brute struggling to flee.

  When the policeman ran up, the earl pointed at his captive. “He attacked us and attempted to abduct the lady. We have reason to believe he was sent by a man posing as the Earl of Craigmore. As soon as I take the lady home, I’ll be down to the station to file a complaint.”

  Given how she looked, Iona was grateful he did not use her name. Even so, the policeman glanced in doubt at her drab wool.

  But he nodded respectfully as Lord Ives casually brushed off his suit coat as if he engaged in fisticuffs on a regular basis. “Yes, my lord. The miscreants do nae usually attack in day.”

  “The lady does not go out at night for fear of such attacks. Craigmore has apparently become desperate. We’ll follow in your path in case they return.” Lord Ives briefly squeezed Iona’s shoulders, then more appropriately offered his arm.

  She needed it. She was still trembling. How had Mortimer discovered she was in town—and learned where she was? They’d been so careful! She was quite certain he had not seen through her baron’s disguise and had only intruded on the Dares to see if Ives had followed her false claim.

  Several of the passersby who had run to their aid also followed to be certain the large scoundrel did not escape from the much slighter policeman. Iona felt as if eyes stared at her from behind windows up and down the street.

  “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “I don’t want to lead anyone back to Lord Dare’s.”

  “Agreed,” the earl whispered back.

  After depositing the policeman and his captive at the police station, Lord Ives caught a hansom and helped her in. Climbing up beside her, he ordered the cab to the train station.

  “If you send me back to Isobel, I cannot appear for the reward to prove you’ve found me,” she objected.

  “I am considering leading White and Mortimer out to Calder Castle and shoving them off a cliff,” he said grimly.

  “It might be easier to do so from the fort.” She indicated the high bluff supporting the ancient fortress ahead.

  “Tempting,” he agreed. “But I intend to pretend I’m putting you on a train. You will sneak off further down the cars while I stand there idiotically waving at strangers in the windows. The Royal hotel is just down the block. Do you think you can slip in a back door as if you’re part of the staff?”

  “Give me your cloak. I’ll put it in my bag and wear it when I get off. It’s not much, but it will hide me and the bag. I should be able to find a crowd of people to walk with.” She was still breathing too fast, and her pulse was racing. That had been much too close an encounter.

  She prayed Mortimer knew nothing of her twin’s hiding place. There were strange workmen all over the grounds at the castle. She’d have to send a telegram and caution Isobel to stay inside.

  Without warning, the earl leaned over, placed his mouth over hers, and captured her breath.

  The unimaginable sweetness of his kiss filled her head and drove away any lingering fear.

  This was where she belonged.

  And she could never have him.

  Nineteen

  All the fury and confusion of the morning melted away while Gerard held Iona in his arms. Her kiss soothed the savage beast that had unexpectedly awakened when he’d seen her attacked. Her breasts pressing into him caused his racing heart to send blood to more intimate places than his fists. The world almost made sense when she snuggled into his embrace.

  And then the carriage stopped and she pushed away and looked like a wide-eyed doe. Not frightened, thankfully, but definitely startled. He had to remember that, despite her confidence, she was young and inexperienced.

  Still unbalanced but recovering his usual composure, he handed her the borrowed cloak he carried over his arm as if their embrace was an everyday occurrence. “Hold the hood over your head after you don it. Changing your hair does not disguise you. And put those horrible spectacles back on.”

  She took a breath and nodded, pulling out the spectacles and fumbling with them. “You’ll be in the hotel lobby?”

  “Probably hiding behind a newspaper,” he agreed, trying to sound whatever in hell normal might be when his blood raced and his mind swirled. He climbed out and held out his hand to help her down.

  “I will find you.” She took his hand and clung to it a litt
le longer than necessary, as if needing to steady herself.

  He knew the feeling. Thank all that was holy, there was a train already in the station. She climbed on, leaving him standing there like an idiot, watching the packed car and waving as it pulled away from the platform.

  He prayed she wouldn’t stay on the train, leaving him behind. He noted its destination, just in case.

  Then crossing the track, he climbed up to Princes Street and strode hurriedly for the hotel. He didn’t see any sign of a cloaked female in the scattering of passengers ahead, but she’d had several minutes to run ahead of him.

  In the lobby, Gerard stopped at the desk to let Rainford know he was there, and to take a room, ostensibly for his sister. The clerk couldn’t give him a second room nearby. That fretted at him, but he couldn’t endanger friends and family by taking Iona back to Dare’s. A large, anonymous hotel somehow seemed safer than a residence Mortimer might recognize as a refuge.

  They had to act soon, faster than he liked.

  He settled in a chair with a newspaper, watching over the top of it. To his dismay, Lady Alice sailed down the grand staircase. Of course, as long as she was in the north, she’d be visiting her father. Gerard yanked his newspaper up and peered from the side until he saw the lady gliding out the door in a flurry of ruffles and petticoats.

  When he glanced at the lobby again, Iona was serenely arranging a bouquet of flowers on a table. She wore her spectacles and a white cap, and in her too-short dress, she looked as if she worked for the hotel.

  A wave of relief rolled over him. She’d put him through so many ups and downs this morning that he finally recognized that his habitual detachment was as much a pose as hers—at least where Iona was concerned. He needed to send her off before the pressure of emotions he hadn’t known he possessed burst his tightly-bound seams.

  Folding his paper, he stood up and stopped near the bouquet to check his watch. “Room 110.” He left the key on the table and took the stairs up.

  He almost had a heart attack when she didn’t immediately follow. He paced the hall, caught Rainford loping down the stairs, told him to wait in the tavern, and had almost worn a rut before he saw Iona hurrying from a hidden door at the end of the hall.

  She was carrying the cloak, walking stick, and her bag this time and had discarded the little white cap.

  “That was a most edifying adventure,” she announced as she held out the key to him. “I could take a position here arranging flowers, I think.”

  Refraining from rolling his eyes, Gerard unlocked the room and shoved her in before anyone could see them.

  He resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms again and watched as she perused the small chamber.

  “Very nice,” she declared. “I cannot stay here, of course. I really should go to the room I’ve paid for.”

  “For the moment, no one knows where you are. Let me talk to Rainford to see if he’s discovered anything new. I’ll have tea and sandwiches sent up. Dash off a note to Azmin and Dare letting them know you’re safe. I still need to file that police report, so I won’t be back as quickly as I’d like.”

  “Will you send a telegram to Isobel warning her to stay inside?” She folded her hands at her waist and watched him anxiously.

  “Of course, good idea. Anything else?”

  “Lady Alice is here,” she pointed out, irrelevantly.

  “Everyone who is anyone is apparently here. That is the point of places like this—to see and be seen. I’ve told the clerk you are my sister. I think I should send a dressmaker over. If you are to appear as my sister—or a countess—you need something better than that rag.”

  She opened her straw tote and shook out a rumpled cotton gown of demure green and gold print. “I’ll ask the maid to have this pressed. With a bustle and underskirt, it will look respectable.”

  “One of Lowell’s choices? Then it might work. I’ll have someone collect it. You’re safe here. Can you not buzz about for a few hours, until I return?” If she wasn’t here when he got back—Gerard wouldn’t let her see his fear, but she probably sensed it.

  “If the reward exists, you’ll have it,” she assured him.

  She’d read his fear wrong, but nodding as if he were reassured, he walked out, waiting until he heard the key turn before trotting downstairs.

  Leaving his messages at the desk—it was amazing what one could command with a few coins and a title—Gerard hurried on to the tavern.

  “Word is that you’ve brought in one of your sisters,” Rainford said the instant Gerard pulled up a chair. “I’ve met your sisters. There is no way they would have arrived without a parade of baggage, children, servants, and a twelve-piece band. I assume our heiress is now in residence.”

  “Damn, I hate this town. Give me London any day.” Gerard took the drink the waitress instantly brought over. “Tell me we can set up a meeting tomorrow and claim the reward.”

  “The money is there,” Rainford agreed. “Mortimer is increasingly desperate. Word is that Mr. White is no longer inclined to believe the twins exist.”

  “The reward is not tied to marriage settlements?” Gerard verified. He really wanted to throttle Mortimer before presenting Iona, but that was his newly discovered savage beast speaking.

  “Not as far as I can ascertain. Mortimer may insist that the ladies be handed into his care, but I’m fairly certain we can provide sufficient objection. That still does not mean the twins are safe to go home.”

  “No, we need to remove Mortimer from the picture. To that end, how did Drummond fare at the card table last night?” Gerard forced himself to sip his drink until his lunch arrived. Iona was safe. He needed to keep his distance—and his head.

  “Mortimer is a drunk and plays like one. White appears tired of bailing him out. Tempers are running short. I don’t think it would be difficult to force Mortimer to sign the twins away. Enforcing the agreement, of course, is a different matter. You may need the reward money to pour him on a ship leaving for Australia.”

  “There’s one in port now, sailing in a few days for the Far East,” Gerard offered. “We think alike.”

  “Ho! Leave him with the Chinese where he can’t speak a word. Even better. So how do you wish to work it?” Rainford sat back, calmly sipping his whisky as his lunch was set before him.

  “We’ll have to prove we have at least one twin and hold the meeting in a solicitor’s office tomorrow.” Gerard had planned this carefully, but he waved his fork about as if he were thinking aloud. “Perhaps play a card game with them tonight to convince White we’re the genuine article. Give them a little hope and pry Mortimer off the girls’ back for a day or so.”

  “Take the money and run?” Rainford suggested.

  Gerard scowled at his facetiousness. “Take the reward money, then offer a chance to win it back.”

  The studious marquess beamed. “Put Mortimer deep in the hole, and force him to sign the agreement to leave the twins and their property alone.”

  “Then get him drunk and carry him to port,” Gerard finished, knowing it would never be easy. But at least it was a plan.

  “Leave White to court the lady?”

  “That,” Gerard said gloomily, “is the fly in our ointment. He must have some plan to force her hand. And she’s not a countess yet. The title is still in abeyance. We can’t predict how either of them will react.”

  Rainford bit into his beef as if it were nails instead of tenderloin. Gerard knew how he felt—only worse.

  * * *

  At the knock on the door, Iona fretted over letting anyone in. Had the maid already pressed her gown? She didn’t know what to expect of a luxurious hotel like this one. Even the soap in the washbasin smelled of lovely herbs.

  “I have your gown, my lady,” a female voice said from the hall.

  Iona grasped her walking stick and a hatpin. The attack today had shaken her. She’d known Mortimer was capable of it, but she had thought they’d been so careful—

  Easing open t
he door a crack, she glimpsed a dour matron holding the secondhand gown, followed by a bevy of young women carrying measuring tapes and baskets of trimming and fabric—seamstresses?

  “His lordship said you’d be needing a wardrobe to fit this size.” The stout matron shoved in, holding up the gown Iona had sent for pressing. The stranger gestured for her army to take their places around the room. “We can fit you up with a few ready-mades. You’re a small size, so we can take down several. Anything fancy will be longer.”

  She threw the cotton print over the bed and studied Iona with expert eye. “Let’s get you out of that rag. Travel is dreadful these days, losing a lady’s luggage like that.”

  Not knowing whether to be thrilled or angry at the earl’s tale-telling and presumption, Iona let the plain-spoken seamstress bully her into a fitting. Was this how a lord made a woman into a mistress? Sweet kisses, a secret hideaway, unexpected gifts?

  That kiss in the carriage—she’d been too caught up in the pleasure to read his reaction. Or perhaps his scent of desire had blocked all else. But bringing her to a hotel room and providing her with a wardrobe. . .

  She didn’t think she’d object too much to being the earl’s mistress—except it didn’t solve any of her problems. She needed to be back with her queen by spring. It would be better if she could ensure the hives’ safety over winter—which was the most she could hope for.

  The gowns the modiste produced were simple but of excellent cloth. Iona rejected two in colors she didn’t wear but accepted two with interchangeable colors, bodices, and skirts. One of the younger girls stitched up the secondhand gown so it fit perfectly, giving her a third choice.

  By the time Lord Ives returned that evening, Iona was hungry, tired, and dressed in the simple gown with the pretty gold bouquet print. The dressmakers had added a fashionable apron bodice in a deep green and a frill of lace for the neckline.