AN Unexpected Gentleman

by Alissa Johnson

  “Adelaide?”

  Connor’s voice brought her back to the moment. “I worry, that’s all.”

  “Well, don’t. Tell me what else you’ll do when you’re wealthy.”

  “Well . . .” She frowned absently. “Isobel needs new gowns, as do I. Our home could do with a new roof, and doors, and—”

  “You’re speaking of the small again, the mundane.”

  “They’re not mundane to me,” she muttered, feeling a little put out.

  “Those are things you need. What do you want?”

  “I want the things I need.”

  “But now you can want more. Be imaginative,” he insisted. “What will you do when your responsibilities are met? You’ll have thousands of pounds left. What will you do with them? And do not tell me you plan to put every penny into savings.”

  “Not every penny,” she grumbled.

  “Creative, Adelaide. Try—”

  “I should like to take George shopping,” she cut in, surprising herself. She’d not realized until that moment how much she wanted the chance to spoil her nephew. Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to shower him with toys and treats? Evidently, Connor didn’t think so. He looked a bit pained at the idea.

  “What?” she demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Most boys aren’t fond of spending time in shops with their aunts.”

  “They are when they’re shops like Mr. Fenwick’s bakery,” she replied smartly. “I’ll let him buy anything he wants. Everything he wants. All he’ll need to do is point his finger. And I’ll not make him save the treats either. He may eat whatever he likes.”

  “He’ll make himself sick, a boy that age.”

  “Much you know of it. You thought he could be bribed with a bit of flattery. George has the constitution of a bull. He’ll tire out before he can do himself harm.” She could picture him now, sticky with sugar and fast asleep on the pile of new toys she intended to buy him.

  “What else?”

  Warming to the exercise, she grinned and reached for a slice of apple. “I’ll take Isobel to the bookseller’s. She has a great love for the written word. And she’ll have new watercolors and brushes. The finest to be found in town.”

  “You could have finer delivered from Edinburgh or London.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do. She can use the ones from Banfries until they arrive.”

  “And then what will you do?”

  And then . . . Well, then it was Wolfgang’s turn, wasn’t it?

  “I’ll pay Wolfgang’s debts, of course, and . . .” She wasn’t sure what came after that. She wasn’t sure there was anything that could be done for her brother.

  “You won’t be paying your brother’s debts,” Connor said. “That’s for me to handle, and I am doing so.”

  “You are? But—”

  “Sir Robert is one of the creditors. I won’t have you dealing with him.” He gave her a hard look. “The matter is not up for debate.”

  “Far be it from me to keep you from spending your own money on my brother’s debts.” She wasn’t a compete twit, for heaven’s sake. “I was only wondering . . . How long will it take to free him, do you think?”

  “Sir Robert will try to make things challenging, I imagine. But there’s only so much he can do. Another day or two, no more.”

  “Oh.” She bobbed her head but couldn’t force herself to take a bite of her apple. Her appetite was greatly diminished.

  Connor dipped his head to catch her eye. “What is it?”

  “Would . . . would you think less of me if I told you I am not eager to have him home?”

  “No, a shared parentage does not always guarantee affection. I should know.”

  “It is not the same as with you and Sir Robert. You never really knew your brother.” To her way of thinking, Sir Robert had betrayed blood but not family. “You certainly never loved him.”

  “No. I never did.” He paused as if picking his words carefully. “Would you like me to wait to pay Wolfgang’s debts? There are excuses—”

  “No. No, of course not. I don’t want him to rot away in prison.” But neither did she want his animosity to rot away the first bit of happiness the family had found in years. “Perhaps a commission could be purchased for him.”

  Connor shook his head. “I offered. He declined.”

  Adelaide’s mouth fell open. That Wolfgang should not take advantage of the opportunity was disappointing, but hardly shocking. That Wolfgang had been offered the opportunity without her knowledge was astonishing.

  “You went to see him? You spoke with him?”

  “We had a discussion, of sorts, yesterday. I offered to buy him a commission, and he sent his regrets by missive today. He was decidedly unimpressed by my visit and my offer.”

  Adelaide grimaced, imagining the kind of insults her eternally ungrateful brother had likely tossed about. “You should not have gone to the prison without me.”

  His lips twitched. “Yes, Mother.”

  She sighed and wished she could pace. “I didn’t intend that as a scolding. But you’ve already taken on the responsibility of Wolfgang’s debts. You shouldn’t be saddled with his anger as well.”

  All signs of humor fled from his face. “That’s for you to carry?”

  “I’d just as soon not,” she assured him. “I only wish . . . I don’t know how to help him. I’ve tried everything, but somehow . . . I so often make mistakes.”

  Connor set down a glass of wine and looked at her with a kind of impatient puzzlement. “How can such a capable woman have so little appreciation for her own worth?”

  “I’ve appreciation. But I’ve . . . I have no training for this.” She shook her head, frustrated that she couldn’t find the words to make him understand. “It was always assumed I would either marry a gentleman of modest means or remain a spinster with a modest income. My mother saw that I was given the skills necessary to thrive in those conditions. I know how to needlepoint and paint in watercolors and organize a dinner party. But I know nothing of business or how to keep a reckless brother out of business. I was never taught how to be the head of a household.”

  “And yet you’ve filled the role admirably for a number of years.”

  She’d filled it, at any rate. “I don’t know that I’ve done it admirably. I . . .” She took a breath, surprised at what she was about to admit. “I’ve been resentful of the responsibility.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Connor asked, his impatience clearly outpacing his confusion. “No one wants to be made captain of a sinking ship.”

  She frowned a little, not sure if she cared for the analogy. “I don’t know that we were sinking, exactly . . . Yes, all right, we were sinking.”

  “And though you weren’t trained as an officer, you have nonetheless succeeded in pulling yourself, your sister, and your nephew off the boat and onto solid ground.” He wiggled his finger in the general vicinity of his chest. “Fertile ground, if I may say so. A veritable paradise. An Eden beyond the wildest imaginations—”

  “Yes,” she cut in, laughing softly. “I get the general idea.”

  “Good.” Connor reached for his wine again. “Don’t discount what you’ve accomplished, Adelaide. It’s not your fault Wolfgang refuses to abandon ship.”

  A small part of her wondered how much she had actually accomplished and how much had simply fallen in her lap. But most of her wanted to believe in what Connor said.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She took a small bite of her forgotten apple. “Perhaps I will enjoy being captain of Ashbury house.”

  “She’s a worthy vessel. But I’m afraid she already has a captain.”

  “You?” She thought about that, then shrugged. “Very well, then. Admiral Ward has a nice ring about it anyway.”

  “Admiral Brice sounds even better.”

  “Too late, you already chose the rank of captain.”

  “It will still be Admiral Brice, Mrs. Brice.”

  “Oh. Ri
ght.” That was going to take some getting used to.

  “And I shall be Supreme Grand Admiral of the Fleet.”

  “You can’t . . .” She burst out laughing. “That is not a real rank.”

  He plucked the apple from her fingers. “It will be once I’m emperor. Do you know, I believe I’ll raise your George as my successor. It might be wise for me to have an ally about when you begin your campaign for revenge. You do still plan on making my life a living hell?”

  She pretended to reflect on the matter. “I think . . . Not every aspect of your life. Not the parts we are to share as husband and wife. I wouldn’t want to bring hell down on my own head.”

  “Trust me, love, there is no sweeter place to raise a little hell than in the parts we are to share as husband and—”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  “I know. It wouldn’t have been half as amusing if you had.” He appeared singularly unimpressed with her withering glare. “So, what should I be expecting, exactly? The occasional pocket of hell? Small projectiles of damnation?”

  She stole the apple back with a smug smile. “You will have to wait and see.”

  Connor studied Adelaide’s face carefully. She was smiling and laughing now, but the shadows under her eyes persisted. The one on the right blended seamlessly into the healing bruise on her cheekbone, and both were in sharp contrast to skin that had been leached of color by worry and exhaustion.

  He hated seeing it. He hated having to wait to do anything about it.

  An image of Gregory’s wooden carving entered his mind. Quietly brave, that’s how he’d once seen her. Stubbornly courageous seemed a more accurate description now. Courageously stubborn was even better. Resentful or not, she was accustomed to having the final word in anything and everything that touched the Ward household. She was (and would no doubt continue to be) unyielding in her defense of that duty, in her right to retain both the pleasure and weight of leadership.

  It wasn’t his intention to take the first away from her, but she’d have to learn to share the latter. He wasn’t going to stand idly by while his wife bowed lower and lower under the burden of her own family.

  They’d be his family too, soon enough.

  Sooner, if the extra pounds he’d passed on to his solicitor had anything to say about it.

  Connor watched as Adelaide popped the last bite of apple in her mouth and reached for another slice. It had been a very long time since he’d been part of a family—a traditional one. He had Michael and Gregory, but the bonds that held him and his men together were not the same as those that came with marriage, and neither were the expectations.

  He experienced an unfamiliar twinge of uncertainty at the thought of some of the intangible expectations he was facing. Until now, he’d given them very little thought, concentrating instead on what he wanted from Adelaide and what he could easily provide in return. He wanted Adelaide to wife, and he could provide her with the security of his name and his wealth.

  But there was more to being the head of a household than the supply of provisions and a surname. Ideally, a lady with even a thimbleful of blue blood would marry a man who was a gentleman by birth. Barring that, she’d marry a gentleman by nature.

  Connor knew full well he was neither. According to his father, a gentleman never wavered from his dedication to honesty, integrity, and courage. He had abandoned the first two before the age of twenty.

  Then again, fidelity had been conspicuously absent from his father’s list of gentlemanly attributes. And there were any number of men the ton considered paragons, and whom Connor wouldn’t trust with the care of his boots.

  His brother came to mind. Like as not, there was no such creature as a true gentleman, only those who could play the part well and those who could not.

  There could be no doubt the late baron would consider his younger son a failure in the role, but Connor shoved aside both his uncertainty and the old, unwelcome lick of shame. He wasn’t marrying his damn father. The only expectations and ideals that need concern him were Adelaide’s. And like every other gentleman in existence, he could meet the ones that suited him, and he could fake the rest.

  Chapter 18

  The trip home proved to be as diverting for Adelaide as the roadside picnic. For three hours, she and Connor kept up a lively, rambling conversation.

  He asked about her parents and about what she’d been like as a little girl. He teased her mercilessly when she admitted to once having a great affection for mawkish poetry and entertained her with stories of his travels abroad.

  He was charming and attentive, and for that brief period of time, she forgot to think of lies and debts and quests for vengeance. Connor was once again her secret gentleman from the garden; that was all that mattered.

  Before she knew it, the carriage had rolled through Banfries . . . And then right past her house.

  “The driver seems to have forgotten where I live,” she said to Connor.

  “I’d like you to meet someone at Ashbury Hall, if you’ve no objection. It won’t take long.”

  It was growing late, already dusk. A visit to Ashbury Hall meant she likely would not return home until well after dark. A lady did not go about with a suitor after dark. Then again, a lady also did not go riding about in closed carriages. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought.

  “I’ve no objection. Who am I to meet?”

  “My men.”

  She assumed he was referring to Michael and Gregory, the men who had come from Boston with Connor and shared a prison cell with him in Scotland. It occurred to Adelaide that those men were probably the closest thing Connor had to true family, and yet she knew nearly nothing about them.

  “I should very much like to meet them.”

  In comparison to her first visit, Adelaide found Ashbury Hall to be a hive of activity. There were two footmen waiting to assist her from the carriage, a butler to open the front door, and a maid waiting to take her bonnet.

  Her eyes grew wider with every member of staff she ran across, and by the time the housekeeper arrived in the front hall to assist the maid, who looked a trifle lost in her new home, Adelaide wasn’t sure if she wanted to gape or laugh.

  “Mrs. McKarnin?”

  The housekeeper, a tall, thin woman with a mop of white hair hidden under a cap and a bright smile spread across her narrow face, gave a low curtsy. “As you see, Miss Ward. Good evening to you, Mr. Brice.”

  Adelaide chose to gape, and did so until the housekeeper left the hall with the maid. She’d met Mrs. McKarnin several months ago, when she’d been Sir Robert’s housekeeper. She’d recognized the footmen, butler, and maid for the same reason.

  She turned to Connor. “Did you steal Sir Robert’s staff?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he assured her briskly. “They were free of Sir Robert’s employ when they were hired this morning.”

  She watched as another familiar footman walked by. “What, all of them? Today?”

  Connor gave a small, dismissive shake of his head. “They’re well rid of him.”

  “Yes, they are, but how on earth . . . ?” Laughing, she held up a hand. “Never mind. I don’t wish to know.”

  “Excellent. I don’t want to tell you.”

  Unable to determine if he was in earnest or not—and loath to admit she couldn’t tell—Adelaide refrained from further comment and allowed Connor to usher her into the front parlor, a room she felt to have more in common with Ashbury’s great hall than any parlor she’d ever seen. It, like everything else in the house, was immense in proportion and luxurious in decor. The upholstery and drapes were a lush green velvet, the fireplace marble, and the carpet thick enough to swallow her shoes. The Great Parlor, that’s what it ought to be called. In fact, all of the rooms at Ashbury ought to begin with a similarly descriptive title. The Grand Music Room, the Colossal Library, the Lesser Yet Still Unnecessarily Oversized Family Parlor.

  She stifled a giggle and turned at the rise of voices coming down the hal
l.

  “Stand still, damn you. It’s only a bit of—”

  “Stay away from me with that. I’ve not put powder on my head in thirty years, and even then it weren’t on purpose. Scuffle with a magistrate—”

  “Are you wanting the lass to think we’re savages?”

  “I’m not wearing it, and that’s that.”

  A moment later, a generously proportioned middle-aged man and an elderly man with too much powder in his hair appeared at the open doors. Both were garbed in gentlemen’s clothes, and both gave the impression of being decidedly uncomfortable in the attire. The younger man was stretching his neck as if he might work it free from the constricting cravat, and the older man kept jerking his head to the side, leading her to the assumption that either the hair powder was irritating him or he was possessed of an unfortunate tic.

  Connor introduced her to the elderly man first. “Miss Ward, may I present Mr. Gregory O’Malley. Gregory, Miss Ward.”

  Gregory came forward and executed a surprisingly jaunty bow for a man of such advanced age. Then he straightened and smiled at her. “Will you be forgiving an old man for frightening you, lass?”

  Oh, dear. The poor man had grown a little daft in his old age. “You haven’t frightened me, Mr. O’Malley.”

  He beamed with obvious approval. “Sure and I didn’t. You see, boy? Spine.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but he was clearly pleased with her, and she was inclined to be pleased with anyone who referred to Connor as “boy” and got away with it.

  The second man stepped around Gregory with a limp and ran a smoothing hand down his coat.

  “Miss Ward,” Connor offered. “Mr. Michael Birch.”

  “A pleasure,” Adelaide murmured. The surname rang a bell. She looked closer. “Have we met before?”

  “Not proper. But I’d wager you burnt a hole in the back of my head when you was in the garden.”

  The back of his head . . . In the garden . . .

  It came to her then. Mr. Birch, her obstacle at Mrs. Cress’s house party, was the same Michael of whom Freddie had spoken.