Most of her daze had worn off, however, by the time she’d reached the lavish bedchamber set aside for the use of the ladies and the abigail there had helped her locate the cape that matched her gown. Sitting down with it in a corner where the candlelight didn’t quite reach, she considered her reaction to the discovery of Lord Earnshaw’s treachery.
It was one thing to scheme and connive, but quite another, as she had just so painfully learned, to find oneself the object of such duplicity. She’d taken the blow in her pride rather than her heart (or so she told herself), but it was no less hurtful. Perhaps even more so when it struck her that she hadn’t been rejected by the limp-wristed fop who’d taken her driving, but by the dashing man with blue-black hair whom she’d had a glimpse of in the corridor.
The realization left her feeling ugly, undesirable, and tearful. Hastily, Amanda rose and flung her cape around her shoulders, then started as two ladies of her mother’s set, the Countess Featherston and Lady Ingram, swept into the room. Averting her face, she retreated into the shadows to regain her composure before making her presence known.
The countess sat down at the dressing table to experiment among the collection of fragrances arranged in crystal vials while Lady Ingram tipped a tall cheval glass in its frame to better examine the hem of her gown.
“Believe as you will,” she said, turning from side to side, “but I refuse to credit anything Matilda Blumfield says, or to give Cornelia’s daughter the cut direct on the basis of such a preposterous tale.” She paused to sniff and tug at her waist sash. “Indirect, perhaps, but only if she actually kissed the thief.”
The comment struck Amanda like a blow. Horror, fury, and shame washed over her in the same wave. Her eyes widened, her mouth went slack, and she shrank deeper into the shadows as the countess turned on the bench to face her companion.
“But don’t you find her hasty engagement to what’s left of Eugenia’s son sufficient proof?” she rejoined archly. “You should, because you know as well as I that the gel’s been on the road to rack and ruin since her come out.”
“‘Tis a pity about Lesley, though,” Lady Ingram sighed wistfully. “He did so put me in mind of his father.” She sniffed again, her nose wrinkling distastefully. “Before he went to war, that is.”
Strangely, it was the slur on Lord Earnshaw that jolted Amanda out of her shocked stupor. Her chin lifted defiantly and her fingers curled into fists of rage, but she waited until the two ladies had finished the repair to their toilettes and left before stepping into the light.
Now she understood the strange looks she’d been receiving all evening. No one had given her the cut yet, and no one would until the ton had had time to thoroughly discuss her transgression and decide on appropriate censure. At best, Amanda gauged she had twenty-four hours to mount a counteroffensive to Matilda Blumfield’s slander.
Only four days ago she’d been willing to risk the baroness’s tongue and social ruin to escape Lesley Earnshaw, but now that it stared her in the face, she was, beneath her fury, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Even more than she had been up the beech tree in the Duchess of Braxton’s garden with Smythe and Jack and Harry peering at her and Andrew.
And ironically, she had no one to blame but herself. She’d told the lie about kissing the gentleman in the black mask—only it was the truth, which was even worse. Why oh why, Amanda groaned, hadn’t she swooned and fallen unconscious beside her mother?
It was a temptation to do so now, but that would do nothing to get her out of this coil, and she had to extricate herself—somehow—but at the moment she hadn’t a clue how. Fastening her cape and looping her reticule over her wrist, Amanda made for the door, praying fervently that genius would strike her with a brilliant plan.
It did, even sooner than she’d dared hope, as she stopped halfway down the staircase to search the crowded foyer for Andrew. As she leaned partway over the polished ebony banister for a better view, her attention was drawn to a near collision beneath her between a stout middle-aged lord and a footman bearing an empty tray.
The servant’s bow and hasty back step was acknowledged with an imperious nod, and the gentleman continued on his way, oblivious to the loss of the thumbnail-sized ruby which had moments before nestled in the folds of his cravat. The jewel winked briefly in the palm of the footman’s hand, then disappeared into the pocket of his livery jacket as he shouldered his tray and made unhurriedly for a narrow servant’s passage beneath the stairs.
It was Smythe, Amanda realized, on a sharp gasp of revelation. Her salvation and her redemption!
Chapter Eleven
By the time supper was announced, Andrew still had not found Amanda. From long years of experience he’d realized much quicker than Lesley that he’d been abandoned, but that made his sister’s disappearance no less worrisome. In fact it made it more so, for he’d guessed what she was about.
It came to him in a flash of memory when the music stopped and the guests in twos and fours began drifting toward the supper room. He remembered then, crouching on a limb of the beech tree and whispering to Amanda that if he were the thief he’d strike while the guests were at table.
With a groan of dread, Andrew surmised Amanda must also have remembered and considering her engagement to Lord Earnshaw all but dissolved, had gone to ground to await Smythe’s move. Unfortunately, knowing why was no help in determining where, which left him no choice but to find himself a bolt hole and wait for events to unfold.
Cursing himself for trusting her uncharacteristic docility, Andrew made his way cautiously through Lady Cottingham’s house, silent now, but for the echo of chatter from the guests at supper in the wing adjacent. Much as he loved his sister, Andrew was out of patience with her (this was, after all, her second disappearance in twice as many days), very nearly out of sympathy, and not at all sure he could save her from their father’s wrath if this ended in another fiasco.
On tiptoe he reached the foyer, unaware of the Baroness Blumfield creeping along behind him. As Andrew ducked around one of the thick marble pillars supporting the domed ceiling, the baroness, her beady eyes agleam, nipped behind the polished suit of armor standing guard at the foot of the stairs.
Neither she or Andrew had long to wait. Within moments Smythe appeared, clutching a bulging sack to his chest. Glancing warily from side to side, he passed within inches of the pillar. Andrew slid quickly out from behind it in his wake, but too late to get a good look at his face.
He had just a glimpse of a lantern jaw and long nose before Smythe disappeared into the corridor that led to the ballroom and four other saloons, all of which connected and opened onto the terrace and the garden through French doors. Andrew followed as close as he dared, still unmindful of the baroness dogging his heels.
At the end of the corridor he inched around the corner to reconnoiter and saw Amanda, wearing her cape and tucking her slippers into her reticule, creep silently into the ballroom. Andrew ran after her, the soles of his pumps sliding on the polished floor and almost upending him as he cut too sharply through the archway.
At the clatter of his footsteps behind her, Amanda spun around and started visibly. So did Smythe, who paused only long enough to fling his sack over his shoulder before springing like a hare for the French doors.
“Stop, thief!” Andrew shouted, he hoped loud enough to draw servants.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Amanda cried, breaking into a run. “He’s getting away!”
“Mandy, stop!” he shouted, but she only ran faster, which left him no choice but to give chase.
Shoeless, she was fleet as a deer as she raced through the French doors no more than a half-dozen paces behind Smythe. In his treacherous pumps, Andrew did well to lose no ground on her as he slid out of the house and to a halt on the flagstone terrace.
By the glow of the lanterns strung to light the garden, he saw Smythe deftly vault the low terrace wall, and Amanda, who’d gained perhaps two steps on him, let go of her skir
ts to scramble over behind him. The hem of her gown tore with an audible rip as she did, leaving a silken scrap for Andrew to pluck free of the stones as he followed her.
If he hadn’t tripped on something as he launched himself over the wall and subsequently came down wrong on a rough tuft of grass when he landed, he might have caught her. His foot twisted viciously, and though he tried to keep running, his throbbing ankle simply would not permit it.
“Damnit, Mandy, stop!” Andrew shouted, limping, wincing, and falling farther behind.
On the flat sweep of lawn Smythe’s lead on Amanda began to dwindle. He was taller and stronger, but his sack was obviously heavy and beginning to slow him down. Once they’d cleared the shadow of the house and the oblong patches of light thrown by the windows, there was only a pale sliver of moon to wink dully on the braided trim of Smythe’s livery and gleam on Amanda’s streaming hair.
Though feeble, the light was sufficient for Andrew to gauge she’d intercept Smythe before he reached the spiked wrought-iron fence enclosing Lord and Lady Cottingham’s property. Fearing for her safety, Andrew hobbled after her as fast as his wrenched ankle allowed. He shouted at her and at Smythe, but his voice was drowned by the hellacious racket raised by the sack bouncing across Smythe’s back, and that racket prevented Andrew from hearing the thunder of horse hooves behind him.
A second later Lucifer streaked past him, so close his streaming tail lashed his face. Crying out in alarm, Andrew flung up one arm to shield his eyes from the dirt and turf raining on him, then dragged his sleeve away and blinked in open-mouthed amazement at the horseman bearing down on Amanda.
Leaning to the right and all but falling off his mount, he scooped his arm around her and lifted her off her feet. Amanda shrieked, kicking and flailing as he struggled her onto the saddle in front of him. Lucifer went halfway up on his hindquarters beneath them, raked the darkness with his front hooves, and whinnied shrilly.
The piercing sound spun Smythe in his tracks. At the sight of the stallion rearing over him and the glint of moonlight on his shod hooves, his jaw went slack and the sack slipped off his shoulder. It hit the ground with a crash and he was off for the fence, his arms and legs pumping like mad.
The horseman pursued him for a yard or two, then abruptly wheeled the stallion to face Andrew. Lucifer danced and gnawed his bit, close enough for him to see the sheen of black silk tied around his rider’s face.
Struck dumb, Andrew could only gape as Amanda twisted in the man’s grasp, beheld his mask and froze with her hands clamped on the arm encircling her waist. The gentleman in the black mask gave Andrew a jaunty salute, then dug his heels in his stallion’s flanks and sent him back the way he’d come.
“A-n-d-y!” Amanda screamed, as Lucifer thundered past, hailing him again with clods of turf, and bound for the near fence enclosing the lawn.
Realizing he meant to jump it, Andrew forgot his sprain as he wheeled after the stallion and made a lunge for Amanda. His ankle buckled and sent him sprawling on the grass. Winded and helpless, he could only watch as Lucifer, head up and ears pitched forward, bore down on the fence. When he launched himself at it, Andrew caught and held his breath.
And so did Amanda, her eyes closed, certain that she and her captor were about to be impaled on the spikes. But the stallion cleared them handily, with hardly a bump to announce their landing on the other side. He cantered several yards farther before the gentleman in the black mask reined him and turned him around.
Opening her eyes, Amanda saw they were in the garden of the adjacent property. The stallion, blowing and stamping his hooves, stood within a topiary hedge. It was too dark to make out the shapes, but there was enough light cast by the torches guttering above the heads of the footmen clustered on Lord and Lady Cottingham’s lawn to show her Andrew, with Smythe’s sack in his hand, being clapped on the back and assisted toward the house.
“Well, if that isn’t the outside of enough!” she fumed indignantly, pushing her ruined hairdo out of her face. “They’re crying Andy a hero!”
The deep chuckle in her ear reminded Amanda where she was, and of the dreams inspired by her brief encounter with this man in the Duchess of Braxton’s garden. They’d been safe enough, she’d thought, for she never imagined she’d see him again. But now, feeling the strength in his arm circling her waist and the warmth of his chest supporting her on the front of his flat saddle, the vividness of the dreams came back to her, fanning a wave of heat and acute awareness through her body.
“I demand you set me down this instant,” she said imperiously, not trusting herself to look at him.
“I beg my lady’s pardon,” he replied, the chuckle in his voice stirring a delicious shiver and the curls at the nape of her neck, “but you are hardly in a position to demand anything.”
“A gentleman would not point that out.”
“And a lady would not pursue a thief in the dark. Not without a very good reason.”
“My reason is private. And exclusively my concern.”
“Did you, perhaps, wish to be proclaimed a hero?”
“If you must know, yes,” she snapped at him over her shoulder. “But thanks to you, I’ve failed.”
“At least you are unharmed.”
“Unharmed!” Amanda shrilled at him. “You clothhead! Don’t you realize what you’ve done?”
“I believe,” Lesley replied mildly, “that I may have saved your life.”
“No! You—you idiot!” Amanda sputtered furiously. “You’ve compromised me! Which a gentleman would have realized before he swooped me up!”
“I hardly think your virtue is more important than your life.”
“I’ll have no life after this, you fool! Not unless you wish to marry me!”
“My lady,” Lesley grinned wickedly, thoroughly enjoying himself and her fit of temper, “this is so sudden.”
“But for you I’d have caught Smythe! I could have made him say he hadn’t kissed me—”
“Did he?” Lesley cut in, clasping her shoulder in his free hand and turning her to face him.
“Of course not, you clunch, you did!” Amanda roughly pushed his hand away. “But Smythe would have said he didn’t—because he didn’t—and then I wouldn’t be ruined!’’
“What has Smythe to do with ruining you? You just said I ruined you.”
“No, I said you compromised me. Smythe didn’t ruin me—I ruined myself!”
“My lady,” Lesley said slowly, striving for patience, “that’s impossible. It doesn’t come anywhere near sense.”
“Oh, of course it does! It’s as simple as you are!”
And in her outrage, Amanda proceeded to tell him the whole tale. She told him everything, the Baroness Blumfield overhearing her confession, Lord Hampton decreeing that she would marry Captain Lord Earnshaw—everything—in a furious outpouring.
Listening to her tell of the baroness falling through the saloon door, and of blacking her teeth, Lesley wanted to laugh. But by the time her narrative reached Lady Cottingham’s ball, his giving himself away by limping on the wrong foot, and the conversation she’d overheard between Lady Ingram and the Countess Featherston, he wanted to climb down from Lucifer’s back, yank his tail, and receive the swift kick in the war wound he so richly deserved.
“So you can see it’s imperative I apprehend Smythe, can’t you? He’s my only hope of redemption.” Amanda shifted on the front of the saddle to eye him appraisingly. “It occurs to me, since you and he are in the same line of work—and you’ll want to do whatever you can to restore my reputation, since you helped destroy it—that you could be of assistance. Perhaps you and Smythe frequent the same establishments, have acquaintances in common—”
“I repeat, my lady,” Lesley interrupted, “I know no one named Smythe. Or Jack. Or Harry.”
“I didn’t say you did, sir. I merely said—”
“I heard what you said,” Lesley cut her off, the calculating gleam in her eyes reminding him of Mr. Fisk. “And I am t
elling you I am not a thief. I am, as you are, merely a victim of circumstance.”
“Indeed? And what circumstance is it that requires a mask?”
“One I am not at liberty to divulge.”
“How convenient. And how interesting that both times we’ve met you’ve been in Smythe’s proximity—if not his company.”
“And that proves I’m a thief?”
“It hardly disproves it.”
“Then pray tell me, my lady, what have I stolen?”
My heart, Amanda realized, with a clarity that stunned her. Dark as it was, she could just see the outline of his face, his square jaw, the firm jut of his chin, and the tumble of his windswept hair above his mask. As it had in her dreams, her attention fixed on his mouth, the shape of it, the fullness of his lower lip, and she could almost feel him kissing her again.
It shook her so that she turned hastily away and saw Andrew, facing their direction on the Cottingham terrace with a torch raised above his head. He couldn’t possibly see them, it was far too dark and they were too far away, yet Amanda shrank as he made a slow sweep with the torch and the flame guttered and sparked.
“Quickly! You must set me down and go! It’s Andy—my brother—he’s looking for me!”
“I cannot do that, my lady.”
“Don’t be a fool!” She cried over her shoulder. “Why not?”
“Because I do not wish to.”
For the first time in her life, Amanda genuinely thought she might swoon. The words were by far the six most beautiful anyone had ever spoken to her, and like a healing balm closed the wound Captain Lord Earnshaw had inflicted on her pride.
“What do you wish to do?”
Kiss you, Lesley wanted to say, but instead replied, “Only see you safely home, if you’ll give me your direction. Having compromised you, it seems the least I can do.”
Amanda couldn’t see the smile on his face, but she heard it in his voice. And she heard something else she couldn’t identify. It wasn’t familiarity, for beyond the few moments they’d spent beneath the beech tree, this man was a stranger to her. It was liken to intimacy, which was impossible, yet it was there, almost palpable between them. Because she couldn’t put a name to it, Amanda knew it should frighten her, but it didn’t. Nor did the man who held her in his arms.
Captain Rakehell Page 9
