Reunited With Her Viscount Protector (Lords And Their Ladies Book 6)

by Mary Brendan

  Dawn stepped forward, but not too far in case the vicar saw her dishevelment. But she had surfaced from the drugging sensuality that had mired her senses and she had conquered her embarrassment, too. There would be time enough later to rue being caught out acting like a disgraceful wanton.

  ‘Your daughter is in bed asleep, sir,’ she stated firmly. ‘And it would have been better had you arrived at a more fitting time.’ She put up her chin. ‘I have only just received your letter informing me of your intention to visit and was not expecting you without prior warning.’

  ‘So I gather, madam,’ the vicar purred with heavy insinuation. ‘I set out early, having seen the signs of bad weather.’ A flash of lightning seemed to vindicate his decision to beat the storm to London. ‘I broke my journey to take refreshment at the Bell. The landlord related that some weeks ago Lord Sterling’s party were not so lucky in avoiding the spring snows and were forced to overnight at his establishment. How unfortunate for you both...’

  Dawn knew exactly why he’d brought that up. He wanted her to know that he believed her Jack’s paramour. After what he’d just interrupted, she couldn’t blame him for jumping to that conclusion. But for a few more minutes she would have succumbed to that sensual web Jack had spun. They would have been, in every sense of the word, lovers caught in the act.

  ‘Step outside, sir, I wish to speak to you,’ Jack growled with such authority in his tone that the vicar appeared to shrink into his shoes. Jack didn’t wait for Mansfield’s response. Taking the interloper’s elbow, he propelled him into the hallway, shutting the door after him.

  ‘Here...let me do that, m’m.’ Polly nipped over, her fingers swiftly fastening buttons, then smoothing down Dawn’s dress. Having neatened her mistress’s clothes, she circled Dawn, securing silky chestnut curls back in their pins with swift, capable hands. The maid stood back and gave her mistress a satisfied nod. ‘There, much better. Are you ready for a lamp to be lit now, m’m?’

  ‘Thank you Polly,’ Dawn replied, though her heart was still hammering, making her feel faint. She took a deep breath. There was no point in putting this off. She had to deal with Mansfield, hopefully to send him away to return tomorrow. She didn’t care what he said; she wasn’t going to wake up her granddaughter to see a father who cared so little for her that he hadn’t once called Lily by her name.

  Then in the meantime she must devise a way to persuade him to return to Essex...without her beloved Lily. She imagined that might be no easy task. Had the vicar turned up to say he had employed a nurse for his daughter and was taking charge of her? The thought of losing Lily made Dawn swallow a spontaneous sob. Swiftly she went into the hall to start to buy herself some time...and found it empty.

  Chapter Twelve

  The speeding curricle was abruptly brought to a halt outside the Stag and Hounds. Immediately Jack threw the reins to his tiger, then jumped down. ‘Get out.’ He beckoned curtly to his passenger.

  ‘But...I don’t understand...’ Bewildered, Peter Mansfield swung a glance between the Viscount and the tavern doorway. Some rough-looking sorts were congregated there. But they remained idle, as though gentlemen of means pulling up in this seedy district were not an uncommon sight.

  ‘I promised to find you a bed for the night,’ Jack drawled. ‘You’ll find one in there that should suit. It’s a bawdy house. Have you brought your bible?’ he tacked on sarcastically. He’d come round to dislodge his unwanted passenger with a rough tug, but managed to refrain from hurrying Mansfield towards the entrance with a shove.

  ‘I will receive you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to discuss various matters. Vale House, Bruton Square. In the meantime you will stay away from Mrs Fenton.’

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Peter fumed indignantly, steadying himself after his rough handling. ‘I’ll visit her if I wish. You cannot prevent me seeing the child.’

  ‘We will talk of that tomorrow.’ Jack jerked a nod at the tavern in dismissal.

  Peter puffed out his chest and stood his ground. When the Viscount had escorted him from Dawn’s house, promising him a bed for the night, he’d believed the man was offering hospitality in his Mayfair mansion and had readily gone with him. But the curricle had headed fast in the opposite direction, towards the eastern outskirts of town. En route the Viscount had ignored every one of his questions. In fact, it was only on reaching his destination that Lord Sterling had bestowed on him a look, or a word.

  Peter guessed that Dawn was the man’s strumpet, but that mattered as little to him as did the child’s welfare. He’d come to London to foster his own interests and had been handed on a plate a most wonderful way to do so.

  Dawn had never liked him and had opposed his marriage to Eleanor, whereas Thomas Fenton had been easily exploited. Now it seemed his widow might be, too. Dawn would be mortified if salacious gossip started about her. Lord Sterling wouldn’t relish it being known either that he’d been discovered in flagrante when about to take a bride. Of course his ego and reputation would survive any amount of tattle, but Dawn—respectable madam that she was—was a different matter entirely. His Lordship seemed protective of her, so Peter knew he had a useful advantage. The master of Croxley Grange was now the most influential landowner in the area. And Peter needed such a friend to protect his interests along the Essex coast.

  ‘See he is well looked after.’ Jack tossed some coins to the pimps lounging by the door. He grunted in sour amusement as the vicar licked his lips having spotted a comely harlot. She’d emerged from the portal at the sound of gold hitting the cobbles.

  ‘Say goodnight to Mrs Fenton for me, won’t you?’ Peter called slyly as the Viscount sprang aboard the curricle and set it in motion.

  Jack didn’t answer; he knew he was being goaded. He swore beneath his breath instead. Would his damnable bad luck never turn? The vicar had assumed he’d go back to see Dawn now and God knew he wanted to. If he returned there, she would let him in...but the closeness they’d shared as a couple...the fusing of their bodies and lives that Jack so desperately wanted...he knew that was now as far out of reach as it had ever been. He had seen in her face her regret and shame and he understood how she felt. They shouldn’t need to resort to grubby snatched trysts, or to hiding their feelings for one another. They were soulmates...people who fitted together perfectly. But nothing in life was right for them...or even tolerable.

  On reaching the centre of town he drove towards her street and halted the vehicle at the corner, deliberating on whether to knock on the door. The house was in darkness. The hour was late and she would have retired for the night. He shouldn’t disturb her. Yet he was desperate to see her. He wanted to hold her...to soothe her anxiety over what would happen now with her granddaughter.

  Jack knew that was Dawn’s greatest fear: losing Lily to Mansfield’s callous custody. And his own fear was having to live his life without Dawn in it. Yet he understood why she felt cheated. Her rightful place was at his side, as his wife. He’d braved cruelty with her face imprinted on his mind, her soulful green eyes promising him a future that would be worth the pain and suffering. He’d thought that life lost to him when Dawn married and had allowed obligation to take him headlong into another sort of prison. He couldn’t renegotiate a marriage contract with a dead man. Yet he knew if he seduced Dawn into a role she didn’t want she would lose respect for him and for herself. Love and trust would wither beneath resentfulness whether or not they wanted it to. But he’d tasted her now and she’d been every bit as sweet as he’d remembered. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and the devil at the back of his mind was urging him to damn his morals to hell and finish what he’d started.

  * * *

  Dawn had been listening for a sound of an approaching vehicle and had observed the curricle stopping in the distance. She had wondered if he might return to speak to her. But...much as she was desperate to know what had happened, she wasn’t sure she was strong
enough to see Jack again just yet. It seemed he felt the same way about her. From behind an edge of her bedchamber’s curtain she glimpsed the glow of a struck match and knew he was sitting smoking, thinking about whether to come closer and knock on her door. If he decided to do so, what would she do? Send him away? Let him get close enough for another seduction? She closed her eyes, unequal to the test, willing him to go away. As though he knew her that well, he flicked the reins and the vehicle was expertly backed up and disappeared from view. She wiped her wet eyes, wondering what tomorrow would bring. She guessed it would bring Peter Mansfield back again and she must be ready to receive him this time. She let the curtain drift back into place and sat down at the dressing table, staring at her shadowy reflection, illuminated by a single candle flame. Her eyes looked huge and soulful in the pale oval of her face, glittering and dark. She unpinned her thick chestnut tresses and pulled a brush through them, wondering what Jack had said to get rid of the vicar. Wherever Peter was she knew it wouldn’t be long before she saw him again. As exhausted as she felt, she mustn’t rest yet; she must scour her mind for sensible arguments to offer up to persuade him to let her keep Lily.

  * * *

  ‘A letter arrived while you were out, my lord.’

  Jack heard his butler speak as he strode past, but was so lost in dark contemplation that he didn’t absorb what the fellow had said.

  Crawley hurried after his master, nipping in front of him so the Viscount couldn’t avoid the silver salver being whipped up and thrust towards his elegant waistcoat. ‘A letter, my lord. It was delivered post haste from Wivenhoe.’

  Jack muttered his thanks and took the parchment, proceeding towards his study. He tossed the letter to the desk, immediately pouring from the decanter and despatching the cognac in a single swallow. He refilled the glass before throwing back his head and growling his frustration at the ceiling. He was already regretting leaving the blasted vicar to his own devices. The fellow might take his fill of pleasure, then hail a hackney to return him to the centre of town. Mansfield wouldn’t be as bothered as he was about disturbing Dawn, or her neighbours, at this time of the night. He had his faux concern about his daughter to bandy about as an excuse for acting uncouth.

  Gulping at brandy again, Jack prowled to and fro, wondering whether to return to the Stag and Hounds and satisfy himself that Mansfield was still there. He was hoping the vicar liked a drink as much as he liked a harlot and would sink too far into his cups to think of venturing out again.

  Jack knew he wouldn’t sleep after what had gone on. But he must wait until morning, then go back and see Dawn... What he’d say though, he’d yet to decide. Nothing had improved for them; it had got worse. He still had an unwanted duty to fulfil to Sarah and Dawn still had her granddaughter as her priority.

  Thinking of his fiancée had reminded him of Wivenhoe. He grabbed the parchment and sat down in the chair behind the desk, breaking the seal and frowning in anticipation of reading about a problem at Croxley Grange. He was hoping that another old retainer hadn’t popped his clogs in his absence...

  Jack’s frown deepened as some of the paragraphs he’d just scanned, but not digested, started to penetrate his preoccupation.

  He stood up, rereading the letter and a thin white line circled his mouth as his back teeth ground together. Indeed, there was a problem...and it couldn’t be worse. A second later he was again in the hallway and sprinting for the vestibule, calling for the racing curricle to be brought round without delay. Even with this awful news about Sarah’s life being in danger he couldn’t put Dawn from his mind. He returned to his study, grabbing pen and paper to dash off a note to her explaining that he’d been called out of town on business that couldn’t wait, but that he would be back by her side as soon as he was able. He sealed it and shoved away the inkstand just as he recalled that the Reverend Peter Mansfield was due to visit on the morrow. A note was swiftly penned to him, too. Jack hoped that his demand for an urgent meeting at Croxley Grange instead of Bruton Square would take the confounded vicar immediately back to Wivenhoe so Dawn and her granddaughter would be left in peace.

  Jack gave the letters and his instructions for their despatch to Crawley, then took the stairs two at a time, intending to get a few essentials for his trip to Essex.

  Sarah was missing from home and her chaperon was beside herself with worry. A Revenue man had been abducted by smugglers operating in the area, the woman had written, and the fear was that Sarah might have been snatched for ransom, too.

  * * *

  ‘My name is the Reverend Peter Mansfield and I have an appointment with your master.’

  Having snapped out his business, Peter whipped off his black hat, secured it under an arm, then peered along his nose at the butler. Servants at an address such as this would be more used to welcoming gentlemen in expensive tailoring than in clerical garb. Though not at this ungodly hour in the morning, of course. Only lesser mortals attended to their affairs so unfashionably early. Though no mention had been made of it Peter had bristled, believing the butler might have expected him to use the servants’ entrance.

  Crawley raised an eyebrow at the man’s abrasive tone. He had been expecting the vicar, if not his superiority complex, so allowed him over the threshold to inform him the appointment had been cancelled.

  A blush stained Peter’s cheeks. If the Viscount thought to play a game with him by summoning him, then refusing to receive him, he’d not suffer such an insult lightly.

  Crawley could see the man looked ready to explode so added mildly, ‘Lord Sterling wishes me to convey his apologies for postponing your meeting. He has been called urgently and unexpectedly to Wivenhoe, but has left you a note.’ The butler turned to the magnificent gilt console table on which reposed two parchments and selected one. He held it out, then proceeded towards the great doors in readiness to let the unpleasant fellow out.

  ‘One moment...’ Peter was immediately alert to the fact that Lord Sterling had left a note for somebody else before quitting town and he could easily guess who the other recipient might be. He sidled closer to identify the name written in black ink, subduing his excitement on having his hunch proved right. ‘I should like a little refreshment, if you please. Your master invited me to partake of breakfast with him,’ Peter fluently lied. ‘I would not have forgone my meal had I known I was to come here on a fool’s errand.’

  Crawley raised a fastidious eyebrow. ‘Indeed, sir,’ he intoned. ‘How very unfortunate you are.’ He paused, hoping the fool would just take himself off now the door had been opened for him to use. But he waited in vain to see the back of him. ‘And of what would you like to partake?’ Crawley eventually asked.

  ‘A glass of something to drink will suffice. Port, if you have it,’ Peter snapped.

  A stiff bow was Crawley’s acceptance of the order. A few moments ago the servant’s attitude would have irked Peter, but far more was now at stake than the man’s insolence. He must find the audacity to steal that letter the second the butler’s attention was occupied.

  As the manservant marched off to speak to a footman stationed in an alcove Peter shot out a hand, palmed the parchment and slipped it into his pocket.

  Left alone, he felt his confidence returning. He glanced about at the hallway. It was quite lavishly appointed and Peter guessed the drawing room was a fine sight to behold. His chest swelled in satisfaction. He could soon have this rich aristocrat at his beck and call.

  When the port arrived he haughtily grabbed the goblet from the tray the footman proffered and hastily downed it before turning to leave. The butler had obviously thought himself too high and mighty to bring it himself. That had suited Peter; the footman hadn’t glanced once at the bare top of the console table. The butler would have been more vigilant. Peter descended the sweeping steps to the pavement and hurried away, smirking.

  * * *

  ‘Shall I tell him you are indisposed, m’m?’
Polly enquired. Her mistress hadn’t been able to disguise her disappointment on hearing the visitor’s name. The maid sympathised; she had been sorely tempted to shut the door in the beetle-like fellow’s face when answering his loud rat-a-tat.

  Dawn frowned, wondering what to do. She had expected Jack to first put in an appearance to discuss yesterday’s excruciating episode. But she’d seen nothing of him so would have to do without hearing his opinion on how to tackle the problems Mansfield could present. Polly had done her best to keep the vicar from witnessing her mistress’s misbehaviour. But Mansfield wasn’t a fool...he knew what he’d disturbed with his untimely appearance. Thankfully he’d no proof that Lord Sterling and Mrs Fenton were any more than friends. So she would endure any amount of his snide looks and comments if he would just go away and leave Lily with her.

  ‘You’d better show him in, please, Polly.’ Dawn sighed. ‘I’d as soon get this meeting over with.’ Before the maid quit the room Dawn asked, ‘Is my granddaughter up and dressed? Her father might ask to see her.’

  ‘She is, m’m. Lily’s just finished her breakfast.’

  A few moments later Polly showed the unwanted caller into the parlour and Dawn turned about to greet him with a serene expression. She didn’t need to study his face to know he was feeling smug. Every precise step that brought him closer to bow exaggeratedly seemed designed to mock her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Fenton. I trust I find you well?’