Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

by Bronwyn Scott

  And there was money on the line. Upon her marriage, her fortune would become her husband’s according to standard English law. A husband of her aunt’s choosing would be eternally grateful for having been steered in her direction. Annorah had no doubt that her aunt fully expected privileged access to that fortune as a finder’s fee. It had happened once before. She had no reason to expect it wouldn’t happen again, especially if Redding was involved.

  Her aunt was hungry for that money. Her youngest cousin, Mary, would come out next year. A substantial dowry would make Mary a highly attractive prize. Given the right encouragement, it could secure for Georgina and Andrew the next social rung: a baron for Mary, or perhaps the son of an earl. Not a first son, but a second or third son and their grandchildren would be known as grandchildren of an earl.

  Annorah sorted through her gowns. Tonight she needed to look more like a queen than a princess, a sophisticated woman. The money awaiting her upon marriage had never mattered to her. As the sole inheritor of Hartshaven and a tidy sum to boot, she had no burning desire to claim the other portion of the fortune, which was just as well. Her parents had never intended her to marry for money.

  Annorah sighed. Lily had been efficient in getting her dresses hung up and she wanted to pick just the right one. Nicholas had been devastatingly charming this afternoon. He’d drawn every eye in the room without even trying. She’d seen the looks women had cast him over their teacups and fans. A tiny part of her had surged with the knowledge that he was hers, even if that claim had been contrived. It hadn’t seemed that way though. He’d delivered his part with the cheerful bonhomie of a proud bridegroom and she wanted to look his equal tonight.

  That decided it. It would have to be the pale-blue flowered silk with the blond fichu. She liked how it fit with its tight corsage bodice and blond trim to match the fichu. She would be in high looks. Annorah didn’t want anyone to glance across the table tonight and think: how did such a country mouse manage to snare a prize like him? That would be all her aunt needed to smell a rat.

  * * *

  ‘I smell a rat,’ Redding snarled, his thin upper lip curled most unbecomingly as he paced Georgina Timmerman’s personal parlour. He just wasn’t sure which rat it was. Had Georgina lured him here under false pretences of another shot at Annorah, a shot he’d blown twelve years ago, or had she been genuinely surprised by Annorah’s sudden engagement? If so, that meant the rat lay with the niece and the supposed fiancé.

  ‘So do I,’ Georgina said fiercely, her colour angry and high. ‘I don’t believe for a moment he’s for real. She’s trying to outmanoeuvre us and the lawyers. She thinks to keep all the money to herself, the ungrateful girl. She’s been on her own too long. She needs a husband to bring her in line.’

  A flicker of arousal started to stir. He enjoyed bringing a woman into line. He had a few favourite tricks he wouldn’t mind trying on Annorah. A little payback wouldn’t be amiss for thwarting him the first time, for making him wade through two mediocre heiresses in order to get to her.

  Georgina Timmerman’s response was what Redding expected. It was the only one she could give that would protect her liability. She couldn’t very well confess she’d known all along her niece was promised to another suitor. That didn’t mean her claim of innocence was true, though. Redding was a born cynic. He believed no one, not ever. ‘What reason do we have for thinking he’s a fake?’

  ‘My niece doesn’t want me to have the money. She’s never liked me. She’s ruined my efforts for years. I found her good offers in the past and she shunned them. Nothing is good enough for her.’ Georgina gave him a sly look. ‘You should know that better than anyone. You were one of those offers.’

  ‘It seems we’ll have to step up our plans. Real or not, Mr D’Arcy is definitely an obstacle. I can’t very well play the doting suitor if she already has one.’ He’d suspected from the start this would be rougher than it had looked on the surface. Anything that sounded too good to be true probably was. But the prize was a great one; snare Annorah and he would be set the rest of his days.

  ‘I can compromise her.’ Redding suggested. That would be delicious, having her up against a wall, skirts a-tangle when everyone walked in. He could imagine it all too well. ‘I can do something that will cast doubts about her in Mr D’Arcy’s mind. Perhaps I can convince him she’s not the girl he thinks she is.’ Dividing and conquering was always a fun game. Love, or what passed for it, was a fickle and fleeting thing, a sentiment easily trampled when tested, especially for a new couple.

  Georgina’s face lit up with a cruel smile. ‘Meanwhile, we might consider doing the same for her. We should research this Mr D’Arcy and learn all we can just in case he’s after her money. I’d hate to see my niece taken advantage of by a fortune hunter,’ she said coyly. ‘I’ll send a note to London. It might be we can sow the same seeds of doubt for her as well.’

  Redding nodded. He’d send his own enquiry to London, too. The Timmermans might be schemers, but they wouldn’t know the right sort of people to ferret out the information Georgina wanted, if it existed. It might be that D’Arcy was simply a gentleman as he claimed. Redding doubted it. No one was simply anything. In his experience, everyone came with strings attached. Sometimes those strings belonged to a mama, other times they belonged to less savoury connections. If so, he’d be doing them all a favour in saving Annorah from discovering those connections too late. He’d learned, too, that grateful people tended to be, well, grateful. Usually with their money.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Her money was on Nicholas. Annorah’s heart gave a dangerously emotional thump as he glanced up from his position at the bottom of stairs, waiting to take her into the drawing room before dinner. When he looked at her like that, it was easy to forget the fiction and embrace the fantasy that he was hers. He looked resplendent in black evening wear, his jaw smooth from a recent shave, his hair pulled back and sleek. Everything about him spoke of sartorial perfection. There would not be a better polished man in the dining room tonight.

  ‘Annorah, you look lovely as always. The blue becomes you.’ He bowed over her hand and favoured it with a kiss even though he didn’t have to.

  ‘Shall we go and gossip with the in-laws? His blue eyes were merry, and full of laughter when he looked at her. This is what sells him, she thought, holding his gaze. Along with the polish he has a sense of fun. He might have more than his fair share of good looks, but he’s not a snob about them. He doesn’t think those looks entitle him to anything more.

  ‘I don’t see that we have a choice if we want to eat,’ Annorah said, letting him slip her arm through his. ‘It is truly good of you to do this for me. I do appreciate it.’

  He leaned close to her ear as if imparting a secret with a smile. ‘I’m happy to do it.’

  That brought on a pang of guilt. It was easy to be brave when one didn’t fully understand the circumstances. Nicholas thought he was merely enacting a bridegroom’s official engagement introduction to the family. He had no idea that it was substantially more than that. A true bridegroom would have been apprised of the circumstances as soon as he met with the solicitor to discuss the marriage contracts. But she’d not given Nicholas full disclosure. She’d reasoned he didn’t need to know in order to carry out his role. Knowing changed nothing for him. She wondered if she’d made a mistake.

  The noise of pleasant conversation drifted out into the hall. Most of the guests were already assembled. Nicholas bent to murmur something humorous and private at her ear as they stepped through the doorway to join the party, but the motion halted. Annorah felt an infinitesimal hesitation in his step, the clenching of his arm where her hand lay on his sleeve. Something had disturbed Nicholas’s unflappable composure.

  The disturbance was hardly noticeable. It wasn’t as if he’d paled or was trembling. She wouldn’t have noticed at all if she hadn’t been touching him,
or if she hadn’t come to know him in the past week. But she had come to know him. She knew his moods, the way he’d withdraw if a comment struck too close to those subjects he wished to keep private.

  Annorah shot a sideways glance at his profile. He was withdrawing now. Not so much with words, but with his eyes. They were like diamonds, the hardest substance nature had to offer—unscratchable, uncrackable, impenetrable blue diamonds. He was putting on his armour, although she couldn’t imagine what for. She followed his sight line, searching for the foe.

  The perceived threat stood in the deep bay of the window with its floor-to-ceiling glass panels. The man in question faced the doorway and was surrounded by a small group of other males, all with drinks in their hands. Even at a distance, Annorah knew this man was dangerous. Tall and broad shouldered, the proper evening clothes he wore could not disguise his disregard for convention. His hair was dark and loose, his jaw showing signs of night stubble. He possessed none of Nicholas’s perfect polish, yet he was not without his own potent brand of masculinity. Annorah couldn’t fathom what such a man would be doing in her aunt’s drawing room of all places. He seemed far better suited to rougher environs. From the look on Nicholas’s face, he was wondering the same.

  The man’s eyes met Nicholas’s, gazes locking across the room. Nicholas swore beneath his breath. ‘Bloody hell’, and reality stabbed hard at Annorah’s gut, her original fear over this gathering realised. Nicholas knew this man and, by logical extension, it meant this man knew Nicholas. Her mind raced. If he knew Nicholas, he knew what Nicholas did and that gave him the power to expose her secret. The threat posed by Bartholomew Redding was nothing compared to the peril the stranger posed. No, not a stranger, not to Nicholas at least. Beside her, Nicholas seemed to recover himself. They’d begun to move again, working their way towards her aunt and uncle at the fireplace as if nothing were amiss.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Annorah kept a covert watch on him, but he did nothing more than go back to his conversation. The dark stranger was apparently happy to let them go. He made no move to pursue them. Of course, he was the hunter. He could stalk them all night. There was no place they could hide. He could take his time, which raised the question: How long did she have before her secret was out? Horrible scenarios ran through her head. Would he do it early during the fish course? Would he wait until dessert and make her stew through the entire meal?

  Nicholas was doing a credible job, chatting with her aunt and uncle about the price of sheep’s wool, but he had to be worried, too. His quiet oath of ‘bloody hell’ indicated as much. It was all she could do not to drag him from the room and demand knowledge—who was this man, what was he doing here and how much danger did he pose? But such a move was impossible. Even if she could engineer it, it would only serve to raise the stranger’s attentions.

  * * *

  Nicholas smiled and nodded, doing his best to give the impression of listening attentively. Talking about wool prices was demanding all of his concentration, especially when what he really wanted to do was walk over to the window bay and ask Grahame Westmore what the hell he was doing here.

  He’d use those exact terms, too. Had Westmore come on purpose with news about the situation in London? Was he here on assignment? The former seemed likely, the latter seemed doubtful. Nicholas recalled from the afternoon introductions that most of the women invited had come with husbands. Such a consideration didn’t stop London women from availing themselves of the agency’s services, but those services were expensive. He didn’t think the good country women of west Sussex had that kind of blunt, not when they’d have to pay travelling expenses on top of regular fees.

  That left the option that something had happened in London. Still, the speed of mobilising Westmore was astonishing. He’d notified Channing of his direction before they’d left Hartshaven, but the letter could hardly have reached Channing in time for Westmore to be here. If it wasn’t that, then what other explanation was there? With Westmore, it could be anything. He was a bit of a wild card. The only thing Nicholas knew about Westmore was that he was handy in a fight and fiercely loyal to Channing. Up until now that was all he had needed to know. It was also the only thing that kept him from racing over there and demanding private conversation.

  ‘In Scotland, folks are favouring the block-faced wethers,’ Nicholas put in. ‘Of course, the sheep are grazing on highland grass. They need to be hardier.’

  ‘Very true.’ Uncle Andrew put a hand under his chin, cupping it in serious contemplation. Nicholas wanted to cringe. Lord help him, he hoped he never had to raise cattle for living. He might know about sheep, but he could not take them with the same seriousness as these folks did. ‘I might think about buying a few ewes and breeding them with my rams this season and see what I can get.’

  Nicholas hoped that would be the end of it, but Uncle Andrew was nodding. ‘Yes, I like that idea the more I think about it. My merino rams would do well with them. Cross-breeding could result in finer short-hair wool.’

  That was absolutely it. Nicholas had to draw the line at discussing the sex lives of sheep. ‘Might I steal your lovely wife for a moment? I see a new guest has joined us since tea.’ He nodded in Westmore’s direction and offered Aunt Georgina his free arm. ‘Annorah and I should meet him. I confess, he looks a bit familiar. Perhaps I have run into him briefly before, but his name escapes me.’ This way, he wouldn’t accidently expose Westmore if he was using a different name.

  Aunt Georgina preened at the attention. ‘I’d be glad to.’ In moments, she had them across the room and insinuated into Westmore’s little circle. ‘Captain Westmore, you haven’t had the chance to meet my niece, Annorah Price-Ellis, and her fiancé, Mr D’Arcy.’

  Nicholas smiled, eyes meeting Westmore’s as they exchanged a private acknowledgment. Without being aware of it, Aunt Georgina had solved numerous mysteries. He now knew Westmore was here under his own name and he was here alone. Georgina had not attached him to any of the women present. If he was here for one of them, it was in a covert capacity. Of course, this raised other mysteries. What was he doing here under his own power? Nicholas couldn’t imagine Westmore electing to attend a house party in west Sussex for fun when he had ample opportunity to do it as work. Likewise, Westmore knew what Nick’s own role was. He was masquerading as a fiancé.

  ‘I thought that was you when I came in.’ Nicholas was all affability. Westmore was going to let him decide how this interaction would play out. He had to use this conversation to its utmost.

  ‘You know each other?’ Georgina looked from Westmore to him.

  ‘Mere acquaintances from London,’ Nicholas said casually. ‘I don’t think it hardly qualifies as knowing one another, but we have some friends in common. Perhaps we’ll become better acquainted this weekend.’ All of it was true. He didn’t know Westmore well. He knew none of the things about the very private Westmore than other men knew about their male friends. He didn’t know what kind of whisky Westmore drank, where he got his boots or what clubs he frequented. Now, at least, it wouldn’t seem odd if he was seen in Westmore’s company.

  Westmore bowed over Annorah’s hand, his silver gaze sharp like a wolf as he took in Annorah, eyes lingering far too long on places best left ignored in another man’s fiancée. ‘Congratulations, D’Arcy. You’ve won yourself quite a prize.’

  Nicholas wanted to wipe the smug half-smile off Westmore’s face. Annorah wasn’t weak, but Westmore was out of her league. He was far too coarse when he wasn’t careful to wear his public face. Apparently there were plenty of London’s fine ladies who preferred a bit of rough behind their boudoir doors. Westmore was always in high demand.

  Dinner was announced and Nicholas took the opportunity to lead Annorah away. He’d seek out Westmore tonight once the house had settled to bed and clarify his position.

  ‘Is he a friend?’ Annorah asked under her breath as they went into di
nner.

  ‘Friend enough. You needn’t worry,’ Nicholas murmured, pulling out her chair. It was with some relief to note they’d been seated together at her aunt’s end of the table. He was on her aunt’s left, an arrangement that had obviously been cobbled together after his unexpected arrival. Annorah was on his other side and the seat beside her was filled by Bartholomew Redding.

  Nicholas grimaced over the latter. By rights, Redding should have been moved since all the parties involved knew Redding had been brought to the house expressly as a suitor for Annorah. It did make him wonder what her aunt was playing at to keep pushing the man at her. He shot a quizzing look at Georgina as she sat. She knew exactly what he was asking with his eyes. ‘There simply wasn’t time to re-draft the seating chart.’ Her shoulders rose and fell in an apologetic shrug.

  It was a lie and he was tempted to challenge her on it. If there’d been time to move him next to the hostess, there was time to move Redding to the far end. He resisted. A conflict with Annorah’s aunt got him nothing but a potential enemy. He would have better luck catching the proverbial fly with sugar.

  The first course, a vermicelli soup, was put in front of him, signalling the opening of conversation and Aunt Georgina was an eager partner. ‘Now I have you all to myself.’ She took a sip of her soup and smiled. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, which conveyed a more assessing, more critical story. ‘You must tell me everything. How did you meet my niece?’

  Ah, it was to be a side of interrogation with the soup. He was ready for it. They’d planned for this part of the fiction. ‘Through correspondence actually.’ Again, another almost-truth. ‘We had a common interest in an organisation and we finally decided to meet.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘The rest is history. Once we met, we knew we were well suited.’