A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  Molly nodded. “That’s where he said to meet him.”

  “Who? Who is she meeting?”

  “I don’t know.” She set her chin mutinously, and Graeme knew he had gotten all he could from her.

  It didn’t matter. It was enough. He hurried from the room. His steps grew ever faster as he walked down the hall, and he took the stairs almost at a run. What in the world could have possessed Abigail to meet someone by the river? One didn’t have to be from London to know that would be a dangerous place.

  She must have been desperate to do that. But why? What did she hope to do? What could be worth the risk? Anger and worry warred for dominance within him as he strode out of the hotel and hailed a cab. The driver sent him an askance look when Graeme named his destination.

  “I’ll double your fare if you get there quickly,” Graeme added.

  The man took him at his word. It was only minutes before the hansom was rolling down a narrow street that ended at the split and faded sign of the Crimson Pirate. A muted pool of light illuminated a scene that sent Graeme’s heart into his throat. Two figures stood facing each other at the edge of the light, with the dark void of the river beyond them.

  A shot rang out, and one of the forms fell to the ground, followed almost immediately by another bang, and the second form sank to its knees.

  “Abigail!” Graeme flung open the door as the driver pulled his horse to a halt. He jumped down from the carriage before it completely stopped rolling. Behind him the driver let out a shout, but Graeme took off at a run, ignoring him. He was aware of nothing but the cloaked figure kneeling over the fallen one. Not shot, then, just tending to the other. It was her; it must be. It couldn’t be Abigail lying on the ground.

  Graeme saw a figure race out from beside a building and dart straight at the fallen pair. The dark form slammed into the person kneeling beside the body, knocking her over the low wall. There was a splash as she hit the water.

  Graeme let out a roar and raced forward.

  A quick glance at the prostrate figure on the ground assured him it was not Abigail. He turned to the low wall. It was black as pitch beyond it. “Abigail!”

  He heard her cry, cut short, and a great deal of splashing. Cursing the darkness, he kicked off his shoes and started over the wall. A door swung open behind the building beside him, and light cut an arc across the water, enabling him to see the river below him. There, struggling against the current, Graeme saw a flash of white. He dove into the water.

  He put out of his mind how easy it would be to lose sight of her in the dark and how much her soaked skirts and cloak would drag her down. He concentrated only on slicing through the water in the direction he had seen her. Suddenly more light arrived on the wall behind him, enabling him to see.

  He caught a glimpse of her only feet away from him, just as her head slipped below the water. He gave a furious kick, diving beneath the surface, and found her. Wrapping his arms around Abigail, he surged upward. When they broke the surface of the water, she let out a low, wordless cry and her arms clamped around him, clinging.

  It was awkward, swimming with only one arm, and the current tugged at him, her water-logged clothes weighing them down. But Abigail, after the first frantic thrashing, had the presence of mind not to struggle, just to cling to him, kicking her legs to help propel them forward.

  They wallowed through the water to the wall. The driver of his cab stood there, holding up a lantern. His was the illumination that had shown him Abigail. Other figures joined the driver, and as Graeme drew closer, one of them reached out, extending a long wooden stick. Graeme wrapped his hand around it, and the men pulled them the rest of the way. Hands reached down to lift Abigail from the water. For a moment she clung stubbornly to Graeme before she let go and allowed them to pull her up. Two other men grabbed Graeme and helped him as he heaved himself out of the water.

  Abigail was slumped on the ground, coughing, Graeme’s driver and another man bending over her. A few feet away, several other people were crouched over the still and silent body.

  “Abigail.” Water streaming from him, Graeme went to her. She was frighteningly pale in the light of the lanterns. “Get the cab.” Graeme pulled her to her feet and swept her up into his arms. She shivered convulsively. “I’m taking her home.”

  The crowd gave way before him, though one protested, “ ’Ere. Wait! Wot about ’im? ’Oo’s this? ’Oo shot him?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Graeme lifted Abigail into the carriage. She was still shivering and far too ashen. He held her on his lap, wrapping his arms around her to warm her, though he suspected his own wet, chilled body would be of little help. “Hold on. We’ll be home soon, and you’ll be warm and dry.”

  “I was so scared,” she whispered, so softly he could barely make out her words.

  “I know. But you’re safe now.” His arms tightened around her. “What the devil were you thinking, going to the docks?” Relief suddenly swelled into anger. “Have you no sense? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She made no answer, just shook her head and burrowed into him. The gesture only added to the turbulent confusion of emotions inside him. He wanted to hit something, to shout at her, and at the same time to cradle her in his arms.

  “Was it worth risking your life? Who in the hell did you go there to meet? Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know!”

  He made a noise of disbelief, and Abigail struggled to sit up and face him. He clamped his arms around her even more tightly, holding her against him. She glared at him, which perversely made him feel on safer footing.

  “That’s the truth,” she insisted. “I don’t know his name. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Why would you go down there to meet someone you don’t even know?”

  “He said he had information I’d want.”

  “Information?” He stared. “Information about what?”

  “About . . . about . . . my father.” She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.

  Graeme subsided. He would have liked to ask her what she’d learned and why someone in England would know anything about Thurston Price, but his anger had fizzled out as rapidly as it had come, and he felt a brute for interrogating a woman who had almost drowned.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t plague you.” He rubbed his hand up and down her arms and back, trying to bring some heat to them.

  The ride home seemed to take forever, though the rattle of the carriage on the street told him that the driver was setting as fast a pace as Graeme had told him to. When they reached Montclair House, Graeme jumped out of the cab and reached back to lift Abigail down.

  The front door was flung open and the butler himself hustled out. “My lord! What—” His eyebrows shot up. “You’re wet!”

  “Yes. Pay the man, Norton, whatever he says.” He strode into the house and headed for the stairs, snapping out orders to the gaping servants. “Build a fire in my room. Get me blankets. Brandy. Draw a warm bath. Now.”

  As they scattered to do his bidding, he rushed up the stairs toward his bedroom. His grandmother, swathed in a dressing gown, her hair enveloped in a puffy white nightcap, flung open her door as he passed.

  “Graeme!” She trailed out into the hall after him. “What is the meaning of this? You’re getting water all over the floor.”

  “Not now. I’ll explain later.”

  “Well!” the countess said in an affronted tone, but she did not follow him.

  He laid Abigail down on the rug in front of the fireplace. One of the maids bustled in to stir up the fire and add coal to it, followed by two more carrying blankets and brandy.

  “Libby’s drawing a bath now, sir.”

  He merely nodded as he knelt beside Abigail, struggling to untie the sodden knot that fastened her cloak, his fingers rendered clumsy by haste and cold.

  “Sir!” His valet burst into the room and halted, staring in shock. “You’re wet!”

  “I am well awa
re of that fact, Siddings. I don’t know why everyone finds it necessary to notify me of it.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir. But—”

  “Pour me some of that brandy if you want to be useful. Hah! There.” The stubborn ties finally parted beneath Graeme’s fingers, and he pulled the cloak off Abigail, tossing it aside on the floor. It landed with a thud as well as a splat. No doubt it contained her supply of weaponry.

  Siddings returned with a glass of brandy. Graeme curled his arm around Abigail’s back, lifting her to a sitting position. “Here.” He held the glass to her lips. “Drink this.” He gave her a little shake. “Abigail, blast it, drink this.”

  He tilted the glass, and though some liquid spilled down her front, she swallowed. Her eyes flew open and she turned her head away.

  “Thank God. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t wake up. Take another drink.” He held the glass to her lips again, and though she frowned, she sipped at it. She gasped, feebly pushing at his hand, and began to cough.

  “Good.” Graeme drained the rest of the glass himself and handed it back to his valet.

  “My lord, you must get out of these garments,” Siddings said, setting the glass aside.

  “Later.” Graeme laid Abigail back down, and her eyes closed again, but he thought this time her color was better.

  “But sir, you’ll catch cold.” Siddings plucked at his shoulders.

  “Oh, the devil.” Graeme shrugged out of his jacket. “There! Now go away. And close the door behind you.” Graeme turned back to Abigail and started on the buttons of her dress. Lord, there must be a hundred of them, and they were all the size of a pea. “I cannot imagine why you bought this dress. It’s the very devil to unfasten.”

  In frustration, he jerked at one recalcitrant button, and it popped off. He eyed the little thing rattling across the floor, then grasped either side of her dress and yanked, sending more tiny buttons flying.

  That roused her to open her eyes. “Graeme? What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get you out of these damned clothes before you catch pneumonia.” Graeme pulled the bodice down and was faced with the armor of a corset. With a curse, he rose and went to his dresser, returning with a pocketknife. Flipping it open, he slid it beneath the top of the laces and cut them all the way down the center.

  “You’re de-destroying . . . my clothes.” Abigail pushed feebly at his hands.

  “Sorry.” He looked down at her. With a stab of shame, he realized that ripping open her clothes had sent a wave of primitive arousal through him. The sides of her corset fell away, exposing the camisole beneath. Soaked as it was, the thin garment was almost transparent, and it clung to her flesh, revealing the lush curves of her breasts and the darker circle of her nipples, pressing against the cloth.

  It was inappropriate. Wrong. Animalistic. But he knew that the tremor in his fingers as he untied the ribbon of her undergarment had only a little to do with the chill in his fingers. Doing his best to keep his movements calm and detached, he tugged the camisole off over her head.

  “Here.” His voice came out husky, and he kept his eyes firmly turned away as he reached over and grabbed up a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders.

  She made a pleased noise at the warmth, pulling the towel tightly around her, and a long shudder ran through her. And that, too, Graeme found, stoked the fire in his veins. He kept his eyes on his hands working on the ties of her petticoats, but sliding those down her legs provided an equal amount of temptation. He could not keep his mind from straying to the way her long, slender legs had felt wrapped around him last night, how achingly sweet it had been to slide between them and bury himself inside her.

  He hoped she could not feel the surge of heat in his hands. Hastily, he laid a blanket over her. Perhaps it was all right to leave the pantalets; they were, God knew, thin enough to dry quickly. Graeme turned his back to her and settled down to work on the elegant leather boots. For a moment he was tempted to pick up his knife again and use them on the long crisscrossing laces, but he refrained. Perhaps the tedious task of unlacing the myriad of aglets would cool his blood.

  Lord, but he was becoming a lecher. Abigail had been inches away from a man who was shot to death; she’d been pushed into the river and almost drowned. And he couldn’t keep his mind off making love to her again.

  The knock on the door came as a relief. The housekeeper swept in, carrying a tray. “Here we are, sir. I’ve brought you each a cup of nice hot soup.” She cast a disapproving look down at Graeme. “You ought to put on something dry, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “And if I did mind?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mrs. Burbage had been the housekeeper since he was a lad, and she ran everything and everyone in the place, servant or earl, with the same cheerful domination.

  “I’d say it anyway, I expect.” Her dark eyes twinkled as she thrust a cup into his hand.

  The soup was too warm and enticing to protest. He stood up as the gray-haired woman bustled about, pulling Abigail up and wrapping her blanket around her with an efficiency Graeme knew he could not hope to match. She settled Abigail onto a low stool directly in front of the fire and pushed the cup of soup into Abigail’s hands.

  “Drink up, dear, and you’ll feel better in no time. Now.” Mrs. Burbage swung back to Graeme, pointing a stern forefinger at him. “You go let Siddings get you cleaned up before the man has apoplexy. I’ll take care of Lady Montclair.”

  Graeme turned to Abigail. Her mouth curved up a little, her eyes already regaining their glow. “Yes, well, clearly you will do that better than I.” He winced inwardly at the almost sulky tone of his voice.

  “Graeme.” Abigail leaned forward, throwing out her hand to him. He took it and was startled when she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, then pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. Well.” He shifted and glanced around vaguely, feeling at once warmed and embarrassed. He squeezed Abigail’s hand. “Mrs. Burbage will take good care of you. I—I’ll be close by. If you need me.” He was strangely reluctant to leave.

  Graeme glanced over at the housekeeper, who nodded at him, her face sympathetic. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. You go on now.”

  Graeme nodded, and with a last glance at Abigail, he left the room.

  chapter 14

  Now that he was no longer tending to Abigail, Graeme realized just how wet, cold, and dirty he was. It was a relief to bathe and put on fresh trousers and a shirt. Afterward, he returned to Abigail and was told by Mrs. Burbage that “Lady Montclair is soaking in a nice warm bath” and the housekeeper would let Graeme know “when Lady Montclair is ready” to see him. Interpreting this statement to mean his presence was both unnecessary and undesirable, Graeme sat down beside the fire in his study and, leaning his head back against his chair, let his mind drift.

  He was, he thought, rather a failure as a husband. He had not succeeded in even the most basic of a husband’s responsibilities, keeping his wife safe. Of course, his wife’s refusal to inform him of what she was doing made the task somewhat difficult. He supposed a better husband would have known what she was up to.

  What had sent Abigail down to the docks? Her vague explanation of an unknown person offering “information” about her father was flimsy, and her demeanor indicative of a lie, just as it had been this morning. Surely she must have known more about this “information” or the informer or she would not have risked going to as unsavory a place as a dockside tavern.

  What did she hope to discover about her father—or, more likely, what did she hope to conceal? Thurston Price doubtless had done numerous things one wouldn’t want bandied about, but that didn’t explain why she wouldn’t tell Graeme. It wasn’t as if he had any illusions about her father’s character. Perhaps the information wasn’t about her father, or at least not solely. What if it was something about her she was hiding?

  Graeme was roused from his reverie by Mrs. Burbage’s entrance. He jumped to his feet. “H
ow is she?”

  “She’s right as rain, sir, now don’t you worry about that. It’d take more than a dip in the Thames to do her in.”

  He smiled faintly. “No doubt you’re right.”

  “I’ll set the maids to preparing a room for her, but in the meantime, I put her to bed in your bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Graeme thought of Abigail tucked up in his bed, and lust stirred deep inside him. How could he desire a woman this much when he did not even trust her? “That’s fine. No need to bother with that tonight.”

  “As you wish, sir.” She turned to go.

  “Mrs. Burbage?”

  “Yes?” She swiveled back.

  “Send someone to Lady Montclair’s maid at the Langham. Molly’s her name. Instruct her to pack up her ladyship’s things tomorrow and bring them here.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  As soon as Mrs. Burbage left, Graeme started toward his bedchamber. But before he could reach the stairs, he came upon the butler and a footman standing side by side at the front door, as if blocking entrance to the man and woman in the doorway. Voices rose, increasingly agitated, a mingling of Norton’s plummy tones, an American accent, and another voice tinged with a faint flavor of Scotland.

  Prescott and Abigail’s maid. Graeme sighed.

  “Out of the question,” Norton was saying as Graeme came up behind him. “His lordship cannot be dist—”

  “It’s all right, Norton. I’ll deal with the matter.”

  The butler turned, puffed up with outrage. “Sir. I am so sorry you were bothered. I told these—these—”

  “I am sure you did. They are Lady Montclair’s maid and her . . . friend. Molly will be staying with us now.”

  “I what?” Molly stared. A spasm of horror crossed his butler’s features.

  “I am sure that they are here out of concern for Lady Montclair,” Graeme went on, ignoring both of them.

  “Where is Abby?” Prescott demanded. “Do you have her? I insist on seeing her.”

  “My wife is asleep, Mr. Prescott, and I have no intention of disturbing her rest to satisfy your curiosity. Lady Montclair has had a rather . . . eventful evening.” He turned to Molly, saying mildly, “I take it you did not trust me to find her.”