Gentleman Jim

by Mimi Matthews

  And yet the drawing room was as dark as it could possibly be in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon.

  Was she so worried about what Fred might do if he recognized who St. Clare really was? If he saw him in the unflinching light of day?

  The thought irritated St. Clare to an extraordinary degree.

  He was more than capable of handling Frederick Burton-Smythe. Didn’t Maggie know that? Or did she think him still a boy—a servant lad who was in danger of falling victim to a thrashing? Someone she must protect at all costs?

  “When will your guests return?” Allendale asked.

  “Not for several hours, I expect,” she said.

  St. Clare folded his arms. The stitches in his bullet wound tightened painfully. “Perhaps we’ll wait for them.”

  Maggie’s smile dimmed. “If you like. Or you could postpone the pleasure until tomorrow evening.”

  His brows lifted. “Burton-Smythe will be here?”

  “He will,” Maggie said. “And Sir Roderick, as well. They’re coming for dinner. I hope you and Lord Allendale will be at liberty to join us.”

  A dinner party, attended by Fred and his father. It would mean arriving after dark to dine in a room illuminated only by flickering candles. A setting almost guaranteed to disguise any hints of his true identity.

  “An excellent notion,” Allendale said.

  “And Fred has approved of this?” St. Clare asked. “He knows I’ve arrived in Somerset?”

  “He does not,” Maggie admitted. “If he had, he wouldn’t have been so willing to leave me unattended this afternoon.”

  “Thereby letting a fox loose into the henhouse.”

  Maggie’s lips compressed. “A metaphor that flatters neither of us.”

  Yet an apt one, St. Clare felt. “When do you plan to tell him?”

  “I won’t have to tell him. He’ll learn of your visit all on his own. There’s always someone about watching and reporting back to him.”

  “This Burton-Smythe fellow,” Allendale said. “Treats your home like his own, does he?”

  She didn’t deny it. “He’s had the running of the estate since my father died. It’s not ideal, but—”

  “It’s far from ideal,” St. Clare said. “And it’s not just her home he has the running of. It’s the rest of her life as well.”

  “Really,” she objected. “I’m certain Lord Allendale doesn’t want to hear—”

  “I’m certain he does.” St. Clare turned back to his grandfather. “Burton-Smythe must approve her marriage, else she forfeits her claim on her father’s estate. A legal device employed by Squire Honeywell to force her to marry the man of his choosing.”

  “And why shouldn’t she?” Allendale asked. “If that’s what her father wished?”

  “Because she’s marrying me,” St. Clare said. “I proposed to her this morning.”

  His words were greeted with a sudden and very obvious silence. Indeed, had a pin fallen at that moment, he was confident he would have heard it drop.

  Both Maggie and Allendale stared at him, but before either of them could muster a word in response, the silence was broken by the arrival of the tea tray. It was carried in by a footman—different from the one who had opened the front door, and equally unrecognizable. He put the tray down on a low table near the scrolled-arm sofa where Maggie sat.

  “That will be all, Salter,” she said. And then, her blue eyes still throwing sparks over St. Clare’s abrupt announcement, she asked, quite civilly, “Tea, anyone?”

  They waited to speak as she poured them each a cup. As if the polite ritual held them in thrall. It was only after she’d returned the porcelain teapot to the silver tea tray, that Allendale finally responded.

  “So,” he said, “my grandson has proposed marriage to you, has he?”

  “He has.”

  “And you’ve accepted, I gather?”

  Maggie raised her teacup to her lips. “I have, my lord.” There was a hint of a challenge in her voice.

  It brought a faint smile to St. Clare’s lips. Perhaps he should have warned his grandfather that Maggie had been raised by the biggest bully in the West Country? Squire Honeywell’s temper had all but inoculated his daughter. When it came to overbearing men, she was accustomed to giving as good as she got.

  “And what if he should forfeit the title? What then?” Allendale addressed St. Clare. “You haven’t the coin to keep a wife. Not one who’s accustomed to living in a fine house with a full staff of servants, and…what else?” He gave Maggie a hard look. “A string of hunters, and a coach and four? Trips to London for the season?”

  “You mistake me,” Maggie said. “I require none of those things.”

  “And what of my grandson? What about what he requires? A lad meets a gel in his youth, puts her on a pedestal. Doesn’t mean she’s suitable for the gentleman he becomes.”

  Maggie lowered her teacup back into its saucer with a sharp clink. “There’s no one more suitable for Lord St. Clare than I am. And surely it’s his choice?”

  “It is my choice,” St. Clare said. “And it’s been made. Miss Honeywell and I are to be married, as soon as we can contrive it.”

  “No matter the consequences?” Allendale asked.

  “I hope,” Maggie said, “that the compensations of the match will outweigh any consequences.”

  St. Clare’s gaze met hers. And he felt it there, the love for her anchored deep inside him, as elemental as his own heart’s blood. It didn’t seem possible that it could grow stronger. And yet it did; the more he was with her, the closer he came to making her his.

  He prayed she was right. That marrying him, giving up her claim to Beasley Park, wasn’t something she’d regret for the remainder of her days.

  A better man—a nobler man—might have prevented her from making such a sacrifice. He might have withdrawn his suit and saved her from giving up her home and her fortune.

  But St. Clare was neither good, nor noble.

  This time, when he left Somerset, he was taking Maggie Honeywell with him.

  “St. Clare was here?” Fred’s enraged voice exploded from the door of the Beasley Park library. He stormed across the room to where Maggie was sitting by a tall window, curled up in an oversized armchair. “And you received him?”

  She glanced up from the book she’d been reading. “You’re back early.” She looked past him. “Where’s Miss Trumble?”

  “To blazes with Miss Trumble,” he said harshly. “Is it true? You entertained him here? Alone?”

  “I was in no danger. He was accompanied by the Earl of Allendale. Unless you mean to suggest that Lord St. Clare would ravish me in front of his own grandfather?”

  A wash of color darkened Fred’s face. “Did you know he was coming? Is that why you claimed to be too tired to join us on our outing? Did you have an assignation with the man?”

  Maggie turned the page of her book. “This may come as a surprise to you, Fred, but I have no desire to be traipsing about the countryside on a hot day. I’d far rather stay at home. And yes, when acquaintances from town come calling, I invite them in and offer them tea. Would you prefer I have the servants cover the windows and remove the door knocker?”

  Fred gave an enraged snort, like a bull preparing to charge an unseen enemy. “He’s followed you down here, the blackguard.”

  “My cousin has arrived?” Lionel Beresford came into the library. He looked from Maggie to Fred and back again. His normally languid gaze was alive with calculated interest. “And my uncle with him? Now that is unexpected.”

  “They had tea here.” Fred’s tone was thick with insinuation, making the act sound like some kind of debauch.

  Jane followed not far behind Mr. Beresford. Her bonnet was still in her hand. “There you are.” She went straight to Maggie, plumping down in the chair beside her. “Wh
at’s this I hear about Lord Allendale and Lord St. Clare coming to call?”

  “They’re staying at the Hart and Hound. I wonder…” Maggie mused. “Do you think they’d be more comfortable here? We could make a house party of it.”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” Fred said. “I forbid it, absolutely. The sooner St. Clare returns to wherever it is he came from, the better. I’ll not have him in this house making advances toward you.”

  Advances.

  Maggie’s blood warmed to recall her early morning meeting with St. Clare on the banks of the stream. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fred. His lordship behaved in a perfectly proper fashion, and I intend to reciprocate. I’ve invited him to dinner tomorrow.”

  Fred’s fists clenched at his sides. “You wouldn’t—”

  “He’ll be here at seven, along with Lord Allendale.” She gave him a stern look. “And I’ll hear no more on the subject. You’ve fought with him, and he’s won. It’s time to accept your loss with good grace.”

  Jane made a strangled noise.

  Perhaps that had been pushing Fred a bit too far.

  His red face grew redder still, his breath puffing out of him. “My loss? My loss? What do you know of what transpired? These are gentlemen’s affairs.”

  “Come, sir,” Lionel said, coaxing Fred away with a hand on his arm. “Let us leave the ladies to their novels. I’ve a matter or two to discuss with you. Perhaps over a glass of port?”

  Fred grudgingly obliged his guest, exiting the library—but not before casting one last glower in Maggie’s direction.

  “I’ve never seen him so angry,” Jane said. “Is it wise to bait him so?”

  Possibly not. Fred’s temper had been getting worse since Maggie arrived in town. The more she resisted him, the angrier and more frustrated he seemed to become. It had culminated in his attempt to kiss her in the carriage, and now, with St. Clare’s arrival, Fred was all but ready to snap.

  Maggie supposed she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She was in love. Engaged to be married. And after tonight, she may even have solved the riddle of Nicholas Seaton’s birth. For once, the future looked bright—and the present along with it.

  “Fred can’t harm me,” she said, closing her book with a snap. “Today I feel as though nothing can.”

  That night, as the longcase clock in the hall chimed the eleventh hour, Maggie slipped out the back door of Beasley Park and made her way to the end of the darkened drive. A rickety two-horse carriage awaited her, driven by a very small man in an oversized greatcoat and hat.

  She had but a moment to examine him in the silver glow of the full moon before the door of the carriage open and St. Clare jumped out.

  “Is that Enzo?” she asked.

  “Never mind him.” St. Clare tossed her into the cab and then climbed in after her, shutting the door behind him. “Did anyone see you leave?”

  “No. I don’t believe so.” She’d been quiet as a mouse, only lighting a candle long enough to get dressed in one of her old gowns and her cloak. Only Bessie was aware of what Maggie was doing. The rest of the house had been silent as the grave. Not a trace of Lionel Beresford slinking about, or his equally odious valet.

  Or so Maggie hoped.

  “Good.” St. Clare sat down in the seat across from her. He was wearing a caped greatcoat, his hat and cane on the dingy cushion beside him.

  “It was wise of you to think of hiring a gig for the night,” she said. “No one will remark this vehicle, surely.”

  He didn’t reply.

  She looked at him in the weak light of the carriage lamps, attempting to make out his face in the shadows. “If you’re going to sulk—”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  She lifted her brows but said nothing more. What more could she say? He hadn’t wanted her to come with him, which was understandable. She privately acknowledged that visiting a hedge tavern after dark was a trifle dangerous. Dangerous for him as much as her. He wasn’t invincible, after all.

  And so she’d told him.

  But if his arm was paining him now, he certainly didn’t show it. He seemed to be made of stone, sitting there, across from her, still and quiet, as if he had more important things on his mind than a midnight foray into the past.

  Meanwhile, Maggie’s own nerves were fairly crackling with anticipation.

  How many times in their youth had she and Nicholas speculated about the famous hedge tavern in Market Barrow? Too many times to count.

  And now, they were almost there.

  The carriage rattled and jolted along the road, seeming to connect with every stone and pothole. It was a poorly sprung vehicle—a poorly sealed one as well. The cold of the evening seeped through the edges of the doors and windows.

  Shivering, Maggie wrapped her cloak more firmly about her.

  St. Clare sighed. In the next instant, he was up from his seat and sinking down next to her. His arm came around her shoulders, gathering her close inside the warmth of his greatcoat. “Better?”

  She snuggled against him, shaping herself to the side of his body. It was akin to cuddling with a furnace. “Much better, thank you.”

  They seemed to be the only coach on the road, but occasionally, Maggie thought she heard the clip clop of hooves echoing behind them. As if a horse and rider were traveling by the same route. She fervently hoped it wasn’t a highwayman.

  “How long is it to Market Barrow?” she asked.

  “Some seven or eight miles.” St. Clare’s lips brushed over her hair. “When we arrive, you’re to stay close to me. Do you understand?”

  “You mustn’t worry about me.” Before leaving the house, she’d tucked the Queen Anne flintlock into her reticule. It had been a long while since she’d fired a pistol, but one didn’t forget, surely.

  “Of course I’m worried,” he said. “If anything should happen to you—”

  “It won’t, I promise. I’ll stay right with you the entire time.” She set a hand on his midsection. The buttons of his cloth waistcoat brushed over her palm. Her stomach fluttered. There was something extraordinarily intimate about being with him this way, inside a darkened carriage, enfolded in his greatcoat and sheltered by his arm “Did Lord Allendale have anything to say about your going out?”

  “He retired early.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “About this Father Tuck fellow?” St. Clare frowned. “No. I didn’t tell him. There seemed little point.”

  “I hope that after tonight there will be something worth the telling.”

  Some forty minutes later, their rickety carriage finally rolled into the yard of the legendary hedge tavern in Market Barrow.

  Maggie drew back the edge of a moth-eaten curtain to peer out the dirty carriage window. She admitted to a certain disappointment. The tavern was nothing like she’d envisioned it would be. This was no shadowy den of thieves from a gothic novel, but a small, obscure stone building located alongside the highway amidst a tangle of trees and brush.

  “The Crossed Daggers,” she read aloud from the swinging wooden sign as the carriage came to a halt. “How ominous.”

  “It’s certainly not the Hart and Hound,” St. Clare said grimly. He moved to open the door, but she forestalled him.

  “A kiss for luck?” she suggested.

  He stilled. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  “It’s dangerous, Maggie.”

  “Yes, dangerous. Like a cross-country gallop on a hot horse—a jump over a tall gate or a leap across a too-wide ravine.” She hadn’t ridden in ages, but she well remembered that feeling of speed and daring, of utter abandon. It called to her primitive Honeywell soul. “I’ve been wrapped in cotton wool for too many years. Locked away inside Beasley Park. The night you returned to me is the night I came alive again. There’s no go
ing back now.”

  He bent his head. “No. There isn’t.” He kissed her, hard and fierce.

  She clutched weakly at his greatcoat, her heart thumping heavily as his sinful mouth claimed hers.

  It was he who ended the kiss, a blaze of fire in his gray eyes. He drew her hood up to veil her face before opening the carriage door. “With me,” he said.

  She nodded, and when he leapt down, she allowed him to grasp her waist and lift her out of the cab as easily as if she were a bit of thistledown.

  He set her gently on the ground, tucking her hand in his arm. “Keep an eye out,” he commanded Enzo.

  The tiger dipped his head.

  “Will he be safe out here?” she asked.

  “Safe enough.” St. Clare led her across the yard to the tavern’s darkened entrance. There was no one about save for a portly man in an oilskin coat. His hat was pulled low over his face, obscuring his features as he mounted a rather depressed-looking chestnut horse.

  Maggie suppressed another shiver. She clutched her reticule close to her, feeling the reassuring weight of the flintlock within it.

  It was nearly as dark inside the tavern as it was without—and darker still as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them on hinges that were desperately in need of oiling.

  At the sound, every man in the room seemed to look up. And there were a great many men present. Three grizzled, white-haired fellows were hunched over a table in the corner, nursing tankards of ale. Two slightly younger men were near the fire, smoking pipes. And yet another group—younger still—huddled at the high wooden counter of the bar.

  Their faces were uniformly sinister in the shadows cast from an overhead oil lantern that swayed on a chain. And most sinister of all, the barman—a hulking figure with a balding pate and a crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken at least half a dozen times.

  She shot a worried glance at St. Clare, but he didn’t appear to be at all concerned. To be sure, his face was as cold and implacable as it had often seemed in London.