His Secret Heroine

by Delle Jacobs

  Irritation twitched on her lips, but she managed a thin smile. "And what would that be, Mr. Rafferty?"

  "Well, I should have to take things back, of course. But there is wear and tear to consider, too, of course."

  She had no trouble interpreting his words. He would take back all she had bought, but she would still owe him money. She suspected it would be a considerable amount. She wished she had known more about vultures such as he before she came to town.

  "I really must have payment by Friday, Miss Englefield, or I shall have to take back what I have advanced to you."

  He had her, and he knew it. Somehow, he had learned or guessed her situation. But of course he had. Why else would she need such used goods as those he proffered? If she were truly wealthy, she would have bought new, or leased a town house already properly furnished.

  "Your lack of trust wounds me, Mr. Rafferty. You shall have your payment by Friday. But I will not require you to fill the order. I shall have no further need of your services."

  "But of course, I shall be most happy to continue to be of service to you, Miss Englefield, if only you see to the current matter."

  "I am sure you would be, but it will not be necessary. I am sure you have other clients who are in need of your particular services. I'll bid you good day, then, Mr. Rafferty."

  Her dismissal hit him like a slap. He hadn't expected that, but she wasn't sure what it was he had meant to gain. Perhaps he had thought she would beg, giving him the opportunity to relent, but with increased interest, of course. Whatever it was, Rafferty's feet sounded like dropped s as he hurried out into the corridor and collected his hat.

  "Perhaps you shouldn't have angered him," Aunt Daphne said. Aunt Daphne didn't understand this part of the game, despite that she knew the properly furnished town house was essential for a successful presentation to society.

  "And do what? Beg for further indulgence? The man had mischief up his sleeve, Aunt Daphne. Best to part with him before he finds a way to cause real harm."

  "But how will you pay him, my dear?"

  "The garnets. Cargill, fetch the garnet parure from the safe. See what you can get for it."

  "Pawn, miss?"

  "Sell them, then. I don't wear red well, anyway. Aunt Daphne, did you happen to notice the lovely draperies in Lady Mythe's blue and gold salon? Let us go shopping. I think I should like to have some like them."

  "But my dear, you cannot afford them!"

  "Quite true. But I have a better idea." Chloe had, in fact, been toying with the thought ever since she had seen the lovely, elegantly trimmed draperies of powdery blue edged in gold tassels. There was nothing wrong with her sea blue draperies except their antiquated style and the fading at the borders where the sun had hit them. A wide band of deep red velvet added where the faded cloth was cut away, trimmed with wide gold braid on the inner side, and golden tasseled fringe on the other. A deep red velvet festoon, trimmed with a narrow strip of the sea blue, and more gold braid, and her draperies would look like they had come from the best purveyor of household goods in London.

  She wasn't vanquished yet.

  * * *

  The good thing about a boat was, it kept a person busy, and Reggie had never been more grateful for that. He'd gone aboard directly from the ball the night before and was up with the sun, climbing the ratlines, mending rigging, drying out the sails, and doing everything but taking a holystone to the deck. If he had been at sea, he would have done that, too, but his crew found it embarrassing when Lord Reginald Beauhampton got down on his knees and scrubbed with the best of them, in view of the entire human race. Declaring to the world they didn't do their jobs right, they told him.

  He was right, he really should have been born a cit. Too devilish hard for a high born brat to work off his excess energy, and nothing but hard work was going to take his mind off Chloe.

  Devil it, but he'd never taken her for an adventuress! He saw the clues, now that he knew, and she'd outright told him she made her own garments. But he hadn't been looking. He hadn't wanted to look.

  The devil of it was, he'd marry her anyway, if he could just persuade her.

  Reggie walked the lines of the topsail yard, spreading the sail over the yardarm to dry, examining the rigging as he went. And just what did she think the man she chose was going to think, once he discovered he'd been tricked?

  He shuddered, thinking of the way Viheurs sniffed about her. If her choice turned out to be that rake, she'd rue the day she had been born. Well, it wasn't his problem. She was the one who thought money was so desirable.

  Yes, it was his problem. He could never forgive himself if he stood by and let her marry a violent man.

  And what the deuce did he think he could do to stop it?

  Ah, devil take it.

  "Sir?"

  Reggie looked up at Russell. He must have spoken aloud.

  "Nothing, Russell," he said. "But these lines will have to be replaced. They won't hold up in another storm like that last one."

  "No, sir," Russell replied. "Should arrive today, and the new jib. But you can't go another year without replacing the rest of the sheets, I'm thinking, sir."

  Reggie nodded. "She's due for dry dock soon, too. I'll see her re-fitted then."

  "Ahoy, Xanthe!"

  Reggie looked down from where he bent over the main yard. "Warrenton!" he called back to the young merchant's son who stood on the dock.

  The sharp breeze flipped back the tails of Warrenton's brown cutaway coat and fought the cit for possession of his beaver hat. "Isn't your blood a bit too blue to be walking the lines, Lord Reginald?"

  "My blood's as red as any man's," Reggie shouted back, recognizing the opening lines of a challenge. "A man should know his own craft. Too good for your own lines, Warrenton?"

  "When I've got a man to do it for me," the young cit called back. "Looks like she needs a bit of work."

  Reggie clambered down the ratline to the deck to meet Warrenton as he climbed aboard. "She's fit enough. Due to replace some cord and a new jib today."

  "Ah, you need new canvas, Beauhampton. When are you going to give up this leaky tub?"

  A fleck of tar clung to Reggie's finger and he scraped it off with his fingernail. "She'll still take you. The Argonaut sails like she's dragging anchor."

  Warrenton grinned openly, the way only a true cit could. "Tilbury to Sheerness," he said. "Tomorrow."

  Reggie answered with a wide grin of his own, the very kind that betrayed his inner imp. "Thursday, next," Reggie countered, knowing he needed the time for repairs. That would give him five days. "As the tide turns. For twenty quid."

  "Done."

  Warrenton was back over the side and down to the dock the way a hound leaps after the fox, and with a quick wave, dashed off toward the Argonaut's berth. Reggie liked the fellow, who shared with him the same sort of never-ending energy, and who had more blunt than half the lords in Parliament.

  And a race was exactly what Reggie needed to keep his mind off Chloe. "MacDevie!" he shouted.

  "Sir!"

  "Look alive, MacDevie! It's Tilbury to Sheerness on Thursday next!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  A rousing cheer spread over the deck and all the way to the tops of the masts. Reggie poured his energy into preparations. The Xanthe would shine from stem to stern for any race, and particularly against the Argonaut.

  The new rope arrived, then the jib sail, and Reggie helped adjust the lines and shrouds, studying it, wondering if Chloe could indeed construct a sail of equal quality.

  He hadn't realized he could miss anyone so much.

  Reggie shook his head, warding off the blue devils. He had to try harder, because nothing short of a miracle was going to bring her back to him.

  "Reggie, dear!" A musical female voice called from the dock.

  Setting down his bucket of red paint, Reggie looked up from the capstan. His mother? In town? That never happened! He waved back and ordered Russell to lower the gangway to bring her abo
ard.

  He watched with pride as she negotiated the lugged plank then extended her hand to be assisted aboard. The duchess was still a beautiful woman, with tinges of silver streaking through her sunny golden hair. She had maintained her slimness and elegant carriage despite her age, and her smile was as cheerful as it had always been. More than beautiful-she was kind and loving, even intelligent. Everyone should have a mother like her.

  "Good morning, Mother," he said, leaning in for the kiss to the cheek he knew she would demand. He remembered his childhood years when he had tried to shirk off her public affection. It had done him no good, for in her own way, she was as obstinate as the duke. "What brings you to town?" he asked. "It has surely been fifteen years."

  "Sixteen," she replied, and her eyes scanned about the ship, taking in every inch with what looked to Reggie like pride. "But I have rusticated long enough. And recall, you have not come home since Christmas."

  It was true. "Where are you staying?"

  She flashed a knowing smile. "Not at Marmount House, of course. You recall Lady Nuttley. The earl passed away in January and she has been a bit blue-deviled. It was time I came to her, for a change." Her sparkling blue eyes surveyed him. "I hear there is a young lady. The on dit, Muriel says, is that you make the perfect couple."

  Reggie cringed. He should have realized it would take something about one of her sons to drag her from her beloved country retreat. "Too late, mother. It is passé, now. We have found we will not suit."

  The duchess blinked as her jaw sagged. "But they say you were all but affianced. And you said nothing to me at all."

  He sighed. It was harder to keep something from her than it was the duke. At least he could trust her with the information. Still, he had no wish to besmirch Chloe's name. "I did not meet her expectations, mother."

  "Ah. She wanted a title, then. Certainly you have everything else. Few barons are as well situated as your grandfather left you."

  "Well, I suppose that is part of the problem, as grandfather chose to leave my competence in the duke's hands."

  "And now you are five and twenty. What is the problem?"

  "The problem is the duke. He will not relinquish his hold. And he is determined I shall marry Portia Nightengale, or not see a farthing of it."

  Sparks of fire flashed in his mother's lovely blue eyes, and her lips thinned with the sort of determination that could spell trouble. "He cannot do that, Reggie. It is not his prerogative at all."

  "Mother..."

  "Reggie, I thought you knew how to manage things like this. The trust fund is quite clear. On your twenty-fifth birthday, the entire fund, along with Featherstone, passes to you. The bank has no choice."

  "He has found a technicality. I must sufficiently prove my maturity before he is bound to release it. The Duke of Marmount also is a major investor in the bank, mother. I've already tried. They will not budge."

  She stared. Slowly the duchess's mouth closed and her lips tightened. "Well, we shall see about that. We will—"

  "Mother..."

  For a moment, their gazes dueled.

  "I see. And you do not wish to confront him."

  "It is my affair, mother, and you must let me handle it."

  The duchess nodded, her lips almost, but not quite, pouting. "Yes, I suppose that is so. A young man cannot have his mother running about fighting his battles for him, can he?"

  Then her warm smile returned. It was the sort that brought sunshine into a dreary day. Reggie couldn't help smiling back.

  "No, it would not do at all. But come along, let us go home. I have no doubt you have a commitment for the evening."

  "Just so, dear. Muriel insists I must bring you for dinner. And I have taken the precaution to speak to Puckett. Fortunately, you have no pressing engagements."

  Her sweet smile said much more than mere pleasantness. Reggie knew he was defeated before he even started, for the duchess had her own way of getting what she wanted. Although Reggie could no longer remember the cause of his parents' estrangement so long ago, he had little trouble understanding it. The hard part was comprehending how two such formidable powers had managed to endure each other for as long as they had.

  With a kiss to her cheek, Reggie sent his mother on her way, promising to arrive at Lady Nuttley's dinner party on time. That left him little choice but to hurry home himself if he meant to be properly turned out, so he tucked away his frustration and drove his curricle back to his rooms.

  Puckett met him at the door wearing a broad smile. "Good evening, sir."

  Reggie stared at him, puzzled.

  "He bought it, sir. I have the contract, ready for your signature."

  "Ludwick? He bought The Adventuress?"

  "The very same, sir. And the terms are most generous. Mr. Ludwick is most anxious to get the thing into print. He has the highest of aspirations for it. But he insists, even though he is willing to protect your anonymity, he must meet you. One cannot maintain a valid contract with an anonymous man, you know."

  Reggie laughed aloud, nearly shouting as he unfolded the contract and studied it. Perhaps Chloe would find him more acceptable now. And if he could just get it published and on the streets before his father found a way to stop it, sour-dispositioned Portia would have to look elsewhere for a husband.

  No, he knew better than that. Now he knew, no matter what, no matter how impoverished he was, he would never marry Portia. He would never marry anyone but Chloe.

  * * *

  Lady Nuttley, otherwise known as Aunt Nuttley for her obscure relationship to Reggie, beamed widely, swaying her rather large, black-garbed form as she hurried up to greet him and held out her hand in a queenly fashion. "Dear boy, how you have neglected me!"

  Reggie hid his grimace. He had neglected her, and she was as dear a person as he could ever hope to have in his life. "I can only beg your forgiveness, Aunt Nuttley. I dare not so much as plead other commitments."

  He lifted her pudgy hand and bowed over it, quietly noting the blotchy skin he had not seen on his last visit more than two months past. Was it his imagination, or had she aged several years in the few months since the earl had been gone? Unlike Reggie's mother, her dear friend, she had never managed her figure well, and she had acquired the inevitable signs of passing years before her time. But there seemed to be more wrinkles on her crepey skin, more weight on her frame, and her hair had gone almost completely grey. Her relationship with Nuttley had not been a love match, but they had suited quite well, and his death had been a sorrowful blow to her.

  "You are a young man, and I daresay have a young man's interests, so do not make me promises, dear boy, as I shall not believe them. No, I fear I must let the young be young."

  When grande dames declaimed about their age and the neglect of the young, Reggie took it as the harbinger of a coming manipulation. And when it was addressed to a reasonably young and reasonably eligible man such as himself, the purpose of the manipulation was obvious. Without so much as lifting an eyebrow, he straightened, and with a smile, surveyed the assembled guests to speculate which one of them was meant to become his target.

  Chloe. He groaned. There she stood with her aunt and Castlebury, staring at Reggie, looking as stricken as a doe staring down a musket barrel.

  So the rumor was true. The matchmakers of the ton had declared them the Perfect Couple, and would not desist until they had their way, with Reggie and Chloe firmly shackled to each other, using real leg-irons if necessary.

  Swallowing down the hurt pride from her rejection, Reggie sauntered across the drawing room, knowing the slightest cut to her would reverberate throughout drawing rooms all over town.

  A nod to Castlebury, a genteel salute to Miss Hawarth, and then to her niece, and Reggie entered the conversation, a desultory discussion of the floral arrangements. Chloe fell silent, blinking overmuch and quietly studying some minute detail in the scrolled carpet at her feet.

  Reggie mentally paired off the men and women present by their rank, pair
by pair by pair, until he reached the conclusion he had expected. He was to escort Chloe down to dinner, and sit by her side, conversing almost entirely with her for the next several grueling hours, to be relieved only by the rather short period of time when the women would withdraw and leave the men to their smokes and port.

  He, at least, had grown up with this sort of maneuvering and understood it was well-intentioned, but she probably wasn't accustomed to it. And she looked to be about as miserable a young miss as he had ever seen.

  Was he ruining her chances with Castlebury? He had to admit, his old friend would be a respectable catch. While not spectacularly wealthy, as the Earl of Castlebury, he did possess an old and venerable title in his own right. Was that why she could not make herself meet his gaze?

  Then, with a perfectly polite nod and slightly amused smile, Castlebury excused himself, and Reggie realized everyone else had already departed for other company.

  "Smile," he said to her. "We are to be friends, you know."

  "And dinner companions, it would appear." She kept her eyes focused on the carpet, and a little quiver shook her voice.

  "You do realize we are in trouble."

  She swallowed. "I would say they are matchmaking."

  "Worse than that, my dear, they are conspiring to make the Match of the Season. The on dit is, we are the Perfect Couple."

  "Oh. Oh, dear."

  "Precisely. Only imagine how many matrons dream of being the very person who brought the Perfect Couple together. Though I have no doubt if such an event should ever occur, every one of them will claim the honor."