Captain Rakehell

by Lynn Michaels

  “You’re sitting on a pillow!” she gasped, her voice as horrified as her expression.

  “Why yes,” he replied, all thoughts of mercy vanishing. “Leather is so chilly this time of year. Would you care to share it with me?”

  “Thank you, no.” Amanda wrinkled her nose and moved primly to put the length of the seat between them.

  “As you wish.” Lesley shrugged, did a bit of deliberate fumbling with the leathers, then raised his hands and clucked to his team.

  He wouldn’t dare such a trick with any cattle but his blacks, gelded half-brothers to Lucifer and gentled to harness by Lesley himself. Confused by the signal, they laid back their ears and snorted. He gave the ribbons another shake and clucked again. The blacks snorted again, stamped their hooves and backed against their traces, but still refused to budge.

  “You have the leads crossed,” Amanda said patronizingly, as if speaking to a child. “Your horses won’t move because you are telling them to turn into each other.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Lesley straightened the ribbons and turned on the seat to glare at Tom. “You promised to tell me the next time I got them crossed!”

  “S-sorry, m’lord.” Tom cupped one hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter making his shoulders shake.

  “Do I have them right now?” Lesley asked of Amanda.

  Her reply was a quizzically arched brow. “I thought you were a cavalry officer, my lord.”

  “Lesley,” he corrected her. “And yes, I was. What of it?”

  “I don’t understand how you could confuse the leads.”

  “Don’t you? When one rides there are only two to contend with. Presently, you’ll note, there are four.” He raised the leathers for emphasis, forcing a stiff tone into his voice. “Seems simple enough to me.”

  “I can see how it would,” Amanda agreed, her eyebrow sliding upward another notch.

  She was mocking him again, and rather expertly, too, the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth revealing her even teeth and the pink tip of her tongue. It wasn’t forked, but should be, thought Lesley, glowering as he signaled to the blacks through the ribbons and eased them away from the gutter.

  The humor in the situation was rapidly fading, and with it, Lesley’s amusement. The pillow was the closest he’d come to knocking her off her pins, and even then she’d recovered herself with amazing quickness. He’d been right to think he’d have to lay it on very thick indeed with Lady Amanda Gilbertson. His forehead furrowed as he strove to connive a new strategy, but he realized suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath, that there was no need.

  What in blazes was he thinking? This was no lisping, simpering deb, but the fiesty little vixen who’d hurled herself out of a tree and bruised his jaw! She had spirit and wit, eyes that turned his knees to pudding, and hair—oh, her glorious hair! A tongue like the lash of a whip, it was true, but he could break her of that, with kisses as searingly sweet as the one he’d stolen beneath the beech tree.

  And she was, all but officially, already his. He would have to marry someday, especially if Charles didn’t, and on that score Lesley was inclined to agree with his mother. At the memory of Amanda’s slim body pressed beneath him, the delicate feel of her wrists trapped in his hands, he nearly turned the blacks toward Bond Street to thank his mother for threatening him into this betrothal.

  At the moment Amanda despised him—or rather despised what she thought he was—which meant at the earliest possible moment he must make a clean breast of things with her. He’d tell her tomorrow night, he decided, slowing the blacks before the park entrance. When he came to fetch her for Lady Cottingham’s ball he’d be himself, in his best black evening dress, and sans the overdone Titus, which was beginning to itch beneath the band of his beaver hat.

  But as the blacks made the turn into Hyde Park and Lesley drew them in to avoid running up the back of a phaeton with yellow wheels, the dapper figure of a slight man, dressed in gray and twirling a walking stick, caught his attention. With an all but imperceptible nod in Lesley’s direction, he touched the tip of his cane to the brim of his hat and melted away into the throng of people hurrying along the flagway.

  It was Fisk! Damn and blast the man, he was following him!

  In his elation, Lesley had forgotten about the pesky little Runner, but remembering him and his promise that the gentleman in the black mask would appear again at Lady Cottingham’s ball, cast his intention of revealing himself to Amanda in a new light. She knew about the thieves, just how, he wasn’t sure, but she’d referred to them by name. The one called Smythe had struck Andrew (and he was immensely pleased to realize she really had been with her brother in his mother’s garden), which raised a dozen burning questions Lesley longed to but didn’t dare ask, for fear of involving her further in what might well prove to be—despite Fisk’s assurances to the contrary—a nasty affair before it was finished.

  Until his business with Fisk was concluded he must, to protect Amanda, maintain his charade and his silence. And the madly itching Titus, which was making his scalp prickle abominably. Relieving the worst of it with a quick scratch of the whip handle, Lesley turned on his pillow to face Amanda. The look on her face seemed pensive now rather than fretful.

  “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to Lady Cottingham’s ball tomorrow evening?”

  Thinking she’d rather throw herself under the wheels of his curricle, Amanda nonetheless forced herself to smile as she shifted on the seat to face Lord Earnshaw.

  “I would be pleased, but are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Up to it? What do you mean?”

  “You can’t dance with a cane, my lord.”

  “I’ve no intention of dancing with a cane,” Lesley replied, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting. “I intend to dance with you.”

  “But, my lord—” Amanda began, then glanced at the cushion beneath him. “Is your injury the reason for the pillow? Why ever didn’t you say so?”

  There was no hint of blush or maidenly demure in her question. Still, Lesley colored, from mounting frustration and temper, he told himself, not her unabashed gaze.

  “No, that’s not the reason for the pillow. Your concern is touching, but unnecessary, I assure you. I’m not so feeble I can’t manage a set or two with my betrothed.”

  My betrothed, Amanda repeated silently, the sudden, sinking panic she felt striking her with fresh inspiration.

  “You needn’t put on a brave face with me. That you’ve suffered such a grievous injury in the service of your country is proof enough of your courage. I shall accompany you to Lady Cottingham’s, my lord, but I will not dance.”

  “Lesley,” he ground out between still clenched teeth. “And the wound is not grievous, it is merely—”

  “You are too brave to minimize it, but my mind is quite made up. We shall find comfortable chairs to sit in and drink punch.” Amanda gave him a brilliant, sunburst smile. “I shall even carry your pillow for you! As proudly and humbly as you bear your wound!”

  Outflanked and outwitted again, Lesley realized, wondering if his mother would miss Teddy if he murdered him.

  “Very well,” he gave in with a sigh. “I shall call for you at half-past nine.”

  Amanda nodded, a serene and suspiciously smug smile on her face. He’d told his mother he would escort her and so he would, but if her expression was any indication, Lesley doubted she’d miss him when he made an early end to the evening to do Fisk’s bidding.

  It was a singularly bleak and deflating thought.

  Chapter Nine

  At just past noon the next day a second horrendous shriek rocked the Gilbertson household, catching Andrew in dishabille in the morning room with a cup of coffee quavering precariously toward his mouth. His already throbbing temples pulsed sickeningly, but since his nerves were steadier than Lord Hampton’s (he was only Amanda’s brother, not her father), he splashed just his hand and the tablecloth as he returned the cup to its saucer.

  Hissin
g between his teeth, he winced and sucked his burnt fingers into his mouth as his twin burst into the room with a crumpled copy of the morning Times clenched in one hand and the furies of Hell blazing in her eyes.

  “Where is Papa?” she shouted.

  “Mandy, please,” Andrew begged hoarsely, abandoning his fingers to cradle his head. “Have a care for a dying man.”

  “Where is he?” she shrieked again and stamped her foot.

  “Out—” Andrew gasped, and downed his coffee in one fiery gulp. It scalded all the way to his stomach, but he held his breath until the flames and the urge to cast up his accounts died, then fixed a baleful, bleary gaze on Amanda. “Took Mama for a drive. Said she looked pale.”

  “Oh, how cowardly! He is the pale one!” Amanda stormed to the sideboard and began slamming the lids on the breakfast chafing dishes. “How dare he! Oh, how could he! I will never forgive him! Never, ever, ever!”

  She kept raging and banging, the silver lids crashing and ringing in Andrew’s head. His stomach rolled ominously, and the walls began to wobble. Snatching up the china coffee server, he drained the contents and collapsed, head in his arms, on the tabletop, until Amanda’s tantrum had run its course. He raised his head then, found the room had steadied itself, and an expression of distaste on his sister’s face.

  “Really, Andy. Someone else might have wanted coffee.”

  “Leave off,” he growled, “and kindly come down from the boughs long enough to tell me why Papa is a coward.”

  “Read this.” Amanda threw the wadded Times at him.

  The crackle of the paper as he smoothed it made Andrew’s teeth grate, but he steeled himself against it, blinked and squinted, and at last brought the print into focus sufficient to read the announcement of Amanda’s engagement to Captain Lord Lesley Earnshaw.

  “Let me be the first to express my felicitations,” he said.

  “Do so,” Amanda warned, her eyes flashing again, “and it will be the last thing you ever express to anyone!”

  “But you were told the match would be arranged, to consider yourself betrothed. I was sitting beside you when Papa said it.”

  “And where were you yesterday when that— that—creature he intends to marry me to called?” Amanda gave him a challenging glare and thrust her fists on her hips. “You went haring off with your dissolute friends when you should’ve been here to support me!”

  “Support you!” Andrew shouted, regretting it as his temples thudded anew. “You mean take your side against Papa, which you know I cannot do!”

  “You mean you won’t!”

  “I can’t!’’

  “You would if you’d seen him!”

  “Mandy, really,” Andrew tsked. “Overdoing it a bit, aren’t you, calling Captain Earnshaw a creature?”

  “Am I? Be at Lady Cottingham’s this evening and see for yourself.” She flounced toward the door, but whirled back and flung at him haughtily, “That is, if you can spare the time from your precious friends!”

  This was too much. Andrew leaped up from the table and charged down the hallway behind her, holding his temples, and with his banyan flapping around him like a sail.

  “Now see here—” he began, just as they reached the foyer, and Lord and Lady Hampton came through the door.

  A gust of breeze, warm with the smoky fragrance of dying leaves, entered with them. They were smiling, their cheeks pinked, but at the expression on their daughter’s face, their eyes widened, and Lady Hampton went pale.

  “How dare you!” Amanda accused, breathless with fury. “How dare you send an announcement of my engagement without my permission, let alone my acceptance!”

  “Careful, Mandy,” Andrew warned, sidling up behind her to rest a hand on her shoulder.

  “How dare you use that tone with me,” Lord Hampton retorted icily.

  “I beg pardon, but I—” Amanda’s voice broke, and Andrew felt a sob shudder through her. “Oh, Papa, how could you do this to me?”

  “Amanda, you’re crying!” Lady Hampton shrilled, wavering between clinging to her husband’s arm and rushing to her daughter. “Bennett, what on earth have you done?”

  Lord Hampton’s brows leapt up his forehead. “I’ve done nothing!”

  “Oh, Mama!” Amanda flung herself into her mother’s arms. “He’s the most awful man! A popinjay! A fop, a—a—creature!”

  “There, darling,” Lady Hampton soothed and stroked her hair. “You’re overset, I know, but you shouldn’t speak so of your father.”

  “Not me, Cornelia!” Lord Hampton roared. “She means Earnshaw!”

  “Do not shout at me!” Lady Hampton returned imperiously. “I’ll speak to you later, my lord!”

  Cradling her daughter in her arms, she led her away up the stairs. Amanda dropped a surreptitious wink to Andrew over the banister, then laid her cheek on her mother’s shoulder and sniffled.

  So that’s the game, he thought, divide and conquer. He recalled the tactic from Julius Caesar, and decided Latin was another thing Amanda should never have been taught.

  “I need a brandy,” Lord Hampton said feelingly, shoving his hat and driving gloves at a footman, and beating a harried retreat to his study.

  Andrew joined him, in the brandy as well as the study. His first swallow took his breath away, but this second, at last, eased the throb in his temples.

  “Surely Mandy exaggerates about Lord Earnshaw,” he said.

  “Of course she does,” Lord Hampton returned swiftly.

  Perhaps a bit too swiftly, thought Andrew, noting the sudden flush which rose past his shirt points.

  “I thought we were out of this damned coil,” Lord Hampton grumbled, throwing himself in his chair.

  “Coil?” Andrew echoed. “How is this a coil, sir? The match is made. There’s naught to do but post the banns and arrange the wedding.”

  “Perhaps if you spoke to Amanda,” his father suggested, straightening hopefully in his chair. “You can explain things to her better than I.”

  “What things?” Andrew asked calmly, trying to shield his sudden unease.

  “Assure her Lord Earnshaw’s—er—current mode of dress is but temporary. A passing thing, if you will. He said as much to me in private yesterday.”

  There was a definite note of eagerness—or was it desperation?—in his father’s voice. Just who is he trying to convince, Andrew wondered, Amanda or himself?

  “I’ll speak to her, sir,” he promised, and went straight upstairs to confront his sister for particulars.

  But Marie would not admit him. Lady Amanda, she claimed through a crack in the barely opened door of her mistress’s bedchamber, had taken to her bed with a megrim.

  “That’s a bag of moonshine,” Andrew retorted. “And if she thinks feigning illness will keep her from Lady Cottingham’s, she’d best have another think.”

  “Oh, she’ll be right as a trivet by this evenin’,’’ Marie assured him cheerfully and shut the door in his face.

  Andrew knew as well as the Duchess of Braxton that Amanda had never had a megrim in her life, which meant that what she’d taken to was hatching another scheme. A scheme that did not include him, which boded ill.

  Perhaps his mother could shed some light. Andrew went along to her chamber, was told by her abigail that her ladyship was with his lordship, and then made his way downstairs. He could hear their voices from the hallway but couldn’t make out what they were saying, not even when he unabashedly pressed his ear to the study door.

  Feeling frustrated and ill used, Andrew gave himself over to his valet, then struck out for Jackson’s to make his own inquiries. Between bouts he gleaned very little, for Captain Lord Earnshaw was best known among his set (due to his lengthy absence in the wars) as the Duke of Braxton’s brother. There were only two brief reports of having seen him the day before with Amanda in Hyde Park, but beyond the height of his shirt points, which were considered well within the bounds of any Exquisite, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

&n
bsp; Next Andrew tried Boodles, where he was given the direction of Sir Alex Hawksley, a known intimate of Lord Earnshaw. But at that gentleman’s rooms he was told Sir Alex was recovering from a shaving accident and was not receiving callers.

  On the whole, it was a long and exasperating day. In a sour mood and late for Lady Cottingham’s, Andrew made his way home to find Amanda had already left with Lord Earnshaw, and his parents for an evening of whist with the Duchess of Braxton.

  Card party my foot, he thought, the unease that had plagued him all day hurrying him through his toilette sans the assistance of his fusspot valet. At half-past ten he arrived at Lady Cottingham’s brilliantly lit Grosnevor Square mansion, impeccably, if hastily, turned out.

  It was an absolute crush, the saloons packed to the cornices with the beau monde. A social coup for Lady Cottingham, a statuesque matron preening in the midst of the throng in turquoise silk, but a nightmare for Andrew trying to squirm his way through it to the ballroom.

  The evening had retained the warmth of the afternoon, and though every door and window was open, it was still near stifling. When he came upon a tray of champagne borne by a footman, Andrew helped himself to a glassful. He knocked it back thirstily, unmindful of the startled flicker that crossed the footman’s face as he turned quickly away and disappeared into the crowd.

  “It don’t fadge, I tell you,” came a low male voice from an alcove behind and to the right of Andrew. “The Lesley Earnshaw I knew at Oxford wouldn’t be caught dead with a quizzing glass. There’s something demmed strange about him, and no mistaking that.”

  Startled by the innuendo, Andrew cocked his head to one side to listen.

  “Mayhap it’s the French musket ball he stopped. I heard it took him in the knee, but Paget says it caught him—er—” the respondent paused to chuckle lewdly ‘‘—in a more delicate location.”

  Innuendo be damned, this was grounds for naming seconds! Spinning on one heel to confront the gossipers, Andrew nearly collided with a deb in green taffeta and her escort, begged their pardon, and stepped back. The couple acknowledged his apology with a nod and moved away to reveal the alcove, empty now except for a potted fig.