Captain Rakehell

by Lynn Michaels

  Briefly, she glanced at Andrew, who was still peering into the darkness. He must be frantic with worry, but apparently only he had witnessed her being taken up. He wouldn’t give her away and would do his best to give a plausible account of her absence, yet she wasn’t at all sure she could trust him not to cry an alarm if she called out to assure him of her safety.

  “My father’s house is in Hanover Square,” Amanda replied, deciding that if she was to be ruined, she would have at least one pleasant memory to sustain her in spinsterhood.

  “We are as good as there,” Lesley replied, wheeling Lucifer at a canter across the lawn beyond the hedge.

  There was a fortuitously unlocked gate in the fence at the back of the property, which he was able to negotiate without dismounting. He then set Lucifer at a walk along a circuitous path of back streets and alleyways that would take them to Hanover Square. Eventually.

  In the meantime he intended to enjoy Amanda’s nearness, and to think of a way to turn her up sweet, else this might well be his only chance to hold her in his arms. If it were merely a question of Mr. Fisk, he’d rip off his mask and Bow Street be damned. But Amanda already despised him for his duplicity, and he shuddered to think of her reaction to discovering Captain Lord Lesley Earnshaw had deceived her again.

  “You are not seriously considering another attempt to capture Smythe, are you, my lady?”

  “I must,” she answered resolutely. “It’s my only hope.”

  “But if marriage will save your reputation, and you are already betrothed—”

  “To the most odious man in England,” she put in acidly. “And I wouldn’t have Lesley Earnshaw now if he were the last odious man in England.”

  “Are you so certain your father will release you from your pledge?”

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll—” Amanda faltered. She could hardly bear to think on it, but what if he did refuse? Her bag of tricks was nearly empty. “I’ll think of something,” she finished, managing to sound braver than she felt.

  But she was trembling, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. Lesley hoped it was attributable to the nearness of his strong, manly self, but suspected it was more in anticipation of Lord Hampton’s judgment. He was in a position to influence that decision, and he would, if it came to that, but he wanted Amanda to want him, to yearn for his touch, to love him as much as he loved her.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen heels over ears for her. Perhaps when he’d discovered the bruise on his jaw, or when she’d looked at him so openly in his curricle and asked about his wound, mayhap not until tonight, when he’d realized she’d abandoned him, and it had struck him then that without her beside him his life—and his heart—would always be empty.

  If he’d thought he could trust himself he would have held her closer, but the rub of her shoulder blades against his chest in rhythm with Lucifer’s gait was driving him wild. Her hair smelled of lavender soap, and beneath his forearm, the span of her waist felt no larger than his wrist. He would have to go slowly with her, Lesley thought, and very tenderly on their wedding night.

  Old cavalry horse that he was, Lucifer snorted and laid back his ears as he drew near the mouth of the narrow alleyway he’d been following under a loose rein. (It really was more to his credit than Lesley’s that the damned Frenchie who’d shot him out of his stirrups had only made it painful to sit down for several weeks.) The voluntary stop he made alerted Lesley to the fact that they’d reached Hanover Square, and Amanda still thought he was the most odious man in England.

  “That’s the house.” Amanda pointed. “The one with the capped brick wall and the oak tree overhanging it.”

  With the possible exception of the old beech in his mother’s garden, trees as large as the oak soaring above the roof of Lord Hampton’s house were uncommon in the city. It was a gargantuan thing, several of its larger limbs running parallel and broad as flagways to the balconies hung on the back of the house.

  “See how the branches grow right up to the windows?” Amanda asked, pointing again. “I think it best if I go in that way.”

  “You mean up the tree? In a ball gown?”

  “I’ve done it before, if you’ll recall.”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  Amanda, Lesley decided, as he goaded Lucifer into a walk, would definitely be the one to teach their children—two boys, he thought, and a girl with mahogany hair and sapphire eyes—the finer points of tree climbing.

  The wall was high enough to hide Lucifer from any Nosey Parker servants who might be awake, and enough leaves still clung to the branches of the oak to screen Amanda as she climbed. It was a long, dizzying way up, thought Lesley, feeling a bit queasy as he eased Lucifer to a halt beside the wall and tipped back his head to look.

  “You’ve climbed this gnarly old monster before, I trust?”

  “Hundreds of times. Will your horse allow me to stand a moment on the saddle so I may reach the top of the wall?”

  “Lucifer will allow a beautiful woman anything.”

  “Spanish coin, sir,” Amanda rebuked, but smiled as she ducked her head to make sure her cape was fastened and her reticule securely looped over her wrist.

  “I’ve been thinking, my lady. If you do end up being ruined, perhaps you could take up thievery.”

  Amanda raised just her eyes to his face. “That is a jest in very poor taste, sir.”

  “It’s not a jest. I’m perfectly serious. You were born for the work.”

  “Is that a professional appraisal?”

  “No. Merely the opinion of one of your victims.”

  “But I’ve taken nothing from you!”

  “Oh, but you have, my lady,” Lesley replied tenderly and cradled her cheek in his free hand. “You’ve taken my heart.”

  The graze of his fingertips raised gooseflesh and stirred a shiver at the base of her spine. Savoring the caress, Amanda closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into the curve of his palm, striving to memorize the sensations his touch elicited.

  “Oh, Am—my lady,” Lesley groaned, loosing Lucifer’s rein to take her face in both his hands.

  She made a sound in her throat as his mouth descended upon hers, more a mewl of protest than a moan of pleasure, but it served just as well to part her lips. The exquisite sweetness of her mouth made Lesley groan and sweep his arms around her, his embrace so fierce and sudden that Lucifer snorted and shifted beneath them, his movement doing more than Lesley’s to displace the rapier sheathed and belted to his waist.

  “Oh!” Amanda gasped, springing stiff and wide-eyed away from him.

  “Your pardon, my lady.” Reclaiming the leathers, Lesley fumbled to soothe Lucifer and at the same time readjust his scabbard. “‘Tis only my rapier.”

  “Ohhh,” Amanda responded, but it was more a moan than a sigh. “I must go!”

  “My lady, please—” Lesley begged, but she was already scrambling onto her knees and reaching for the wall.

  He had no choice then but to use both hands to keep Lucifer calm and steady so she didn’t break her neck in the process. From the top of the wall she looked back at him, her tumbled hair gleaming from a light burning in a second-story window.

  “I thank you for seeing me home,” she said, her voice small and quavering. “And I wish you well, sir.”

  “‘Tis a pity you are a lady, my lady,” Lesley replied softly, “for I think the two of us would deal very well together.”

  “You must not say such things!” Amanda cried, a catch in her voice. “It is most unseemly!”

  “The truth is never unseemly.”

  “In this case it is.” Biting her lower lip, she drew a deep but shaky breath. “And we must never see each other again. It’s far too dangerous!”

  “My lady …” Lesley implored, but Amanda was already scrambling up the oak tree.

  Swift and sure as a monkey she climbed, yet Lesley’s palms went clammy and damp on the leathers watching her shinny the length of a broad limb. When she caught a thick b
ranch above her and used it to swing herself into mid-air, he held his breath until she’d dropped nimbly onto a third-floor balcony. The far upper left, he noted, wiping first his left and then his right hand on his shirt front.

  For a moment she stood in the thin pool of light thrown by the candles burning in the window beneath her and tentatively raised one hand. Lesley thought she meant to wave, but suddenly she pressed her fingertips to her lips, then whirled and fled inside through the French doors.

  By God, she loves me, he realized, grinning at the faint click of the latch behind her. She loves me, she loves me! Amanda Gilbertson loves— A thought so horrifying it struck him like a blow caused Lesley to jerk bolt upright in his saddle. She loved him, all right, but she loved the wrong him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when a weary and worried Andrew returned to Hanover Square. That the house lay dark and still caused him to hope Amanda was safely home and his parents snugly abed. With the aid of his exhausted coachman, he negotiated the steps and placed his key in the lock, then dismissed the man and hobbled on his swollen ankle up the steps to his sister’s room.

  The door was unlocked, and Andrew pushed it inward with a tiny squeak of the hinges. The first mauve streaks of dawn filtered through the balcony doors and showed him Amanda curled on her side in her bed. With a sigh of relief, Andrew limped into the room for a closer look.

  She was asleep, her breathing deep and regular, her fingertips curved against her lips. There was a smile on her face, an oddly serene smile, thought Andrew, considering she’d been swooped up just hours ago and carried off on horseback by a masked man. But no matter. She was safe, hopefully unharmed, and apparently not at all overset by her ordeal.

  He turned away from the bed then and hobbled off to his own chamber, his relief giving way to anger. Bright and early this day, Bow Street would hear from Viscount Welsey about Mr. Gerald Fisk. Odious little man. It went beyond the pale for a gentleman to be treated in such shabby fashion! Hours of questions put to him with only a single glass of sherry

  Removing his coat, wilted neckcloth, and shoes, Andrew undid his waistcoat and the studs at his wrists and, already three parts asleep, tumbled into bed. It seemed to him that his head had no sooner touched the pillow than he was being shaken awake

  “M’lord! M’lord, wake up!”

  “Unnhhh,” Andrew groaned, dimly recognizing the voice as that of Simms, his valet.

  “M’lord, quickly!” Water sprinkled across his whiskered cheek and made him flinch. “There’s a dreadful row downstairs, and his lordship is calling—nay, bellowing—for your attendance!”

  “Whaaa—” Andrew groaned again, forcing himself upright, just as Lady Hampton’s all-too-familiar shriek reached his ears.

  It was so familiar that he yawned and fell back on his side, until his father’s voice thundered, “Andrew! Amanda!”

  He rolled, off the bed then and onto his feet, gasping as a jolt of pain shot from his ankle up his calf. Wincing and hissing, with Simms beside him trying to prop him up, Andrew limped to his chamber door and flung it open. He lurched into the corridor and nearly collided with Amanda, her elbow in Marie’s hand, her hair unbrushed and her wrapper untied.

  “Mandy!”

  “Oh, Andy!”

  They hugged each other fiercely.

  “Thank God you’re all right!”

  “Where were you all night? I was awake an absolute age waiting for you!”

  “You aren’t hurt or—or anything—are you?”

  “Andrew Edward William Gilbertson!” Amanda said, planting a doubled fist in his chest and pushing him away. “I was brought home by a gentleman!”

  “Who just happens to wear a black silk mask,” he retorted, rubbing his breastbone. “Who in God’s name is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, a ring of resolve in her voice. “All I know is I intend to marry him—if I can find him.”

  “Amanda Elizabeth Wilhe—”

  “Don’t even think to call me Wilhelmina!”

  “An-drew!” Lord Hampton roared. “A-manda!”

  “Oh, God, come on!”

  Catching Amanda’s hand, Andrew towed her down the stairs to the landing, where they had to give way to a footman climbing toward them with their prostrate mother in his arms. Backed against the wall to give him clearance, they exchanged a look of wide-eyed trepidation as a glowering Lord Hampton appeared below them in the foyer, his hands folded behind him.

  “My study,” he bit at them, “this instant!”

  They were there in less, nipping into the chairs placed before his desk. Lord Hampton stood behind it.

  “Explain how this came into the Baroness Blumfield’s possession.” He dropped one of Amanda’s slippers onto the blotter, a sapphire blue one that matched the gown she’d worn last night. “I’d ask your mother, but as you saw, she fell into a swoon when the baroness called a short while ago and presented this in lieu of her card.”

  “I thought you’d put your slippers in your reticule!” Andrew flung accusingly at Amanda.

  “I did!” she huffed. “It must’ve fallen out! Perhaps when I jumped over the terrace wall.”

  “So that’s what tripped me! I’ve you to thank for nearly breaking my neck!”

  “Enough!” Lord Hampton banged the slipper on the desk. “Why, miss, did you remove your shoes?”

  “I don’t suppose,” Amanda asked haltingly, “you’d believe my feet were sore from dancing?”

  “I would not.”

  “Very well, then” she sighed resignedly. “I took them off and put them in my reticule so Smythe wouldn’t hear me creeping along behind him.”

  “The thief, Smythe? The one who made free with you in the Duchess of Braxton’s garden?”

  “No, Papa, that was the gentleman in the black mask,” she corrected, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

  “And where were you?” their father demanded of Andrew.

  “Creeping along behind Amanda,” he owned sheepishly.

  “Obviously unaware,” Lord Hampton retorted scathingly, “that the Baroness Blumfield was creeping along behind you.”

  Andrew cringed. “Obviously.”

  “The baroness gave me to understand—before I showed her the door—that you were all night at Lady Cottingham’s answering questions put to you by a Mr. Fisk of Bow Street. Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, Smythe tried to rob Lady Cottingham and I—”

  “And where were you, miss?” Lord Hampton cut him off and wheeled on Amanda.

  “I was here, Papa, asleep in my bed.”

  “And who escorted you home?”

  “Why, Lord Earnshaw, of course,” she replied, the lie falling as blithely from her lips as the truth.

  “Indeed?” Lord Hampton withdrew a folded note from his coat, opened it, and read, “‘My dearest Amanda: Having given the matter of Smythe my gravest consideration, and being sufficiently recovered from my exertions of last evening, I shall call this morning upon Lord Cottingham and, if necessary, upon Bow Street, to see the scoundrel brought to justice. Again, my thanks to Welsey for seeing you safely home. Your Faithful Servant, L.E.’”

  Groaning, Andrew wiped one hand over his face and sank lower in his chair. But Amanda, though she went alarmingly pale, sat straight and prim in her sleep-wrinkled night rail.

  “‘Tis a sad commentary,” remarked Lord Hampton, as he let the rote fall beside the slipper, “that I must stoop to the Baroness Blumfield’s tricks to ascertain the truth from my own children.”

  “I can explain, Papa,” said Amanda calmly.

  “What you can do, miss,” he replied frostily, “is return to your room with your abigail and begin packing your cases. I am removing you to Hampton Hall until your marriage banns are posted and the ceremony arranged.”

  “I won’t go!” Amanda stamped furiously to her feet. “And I will not marry Lesley Earnshaw! I cannot, for I love someone else!” />
  “You what?” Lord Hampton shrieked, the shrill in his voice uncannily like that of his countess.

  “What she means, sir,” Andrew inserted, leaping to his feet and into the fray before Amanda botched it further, “is that she cannot marry Lord Earnshaw because he has played her false. I saw him with my own eyes forget himself and limp on his right foot.”

  “Is that your only proof?” he demanded, one brow arching dubiously. “Do you think me a complete slowtop?”

  “Of course not, sir,” Andrew assured him effusively, “but the day before he limped on his left.”

  “And you saw that, too, with your own eyes?”

  “Well, no, but Mandy assures me—”

  “Exactly so,” Lord Hampton snapped, glowering thunderously at his daughter. “I fear Amanda would assure the devil himself, if she thought it would free her from the match. Wouldn’t you, pet?”

  “I would!” Amanda declared vehemently. “And I—”

  “—also overheard a conversation between two gentlemen,” Andrew cut in loudly, giving Amanda a quelling look, “one of them an acquaintance of Lord Earnshaw. They were speculating on precisely where he had been wounded.”

  “Why—” Lord Hampton frowned thoughtfully. “I believe it was at Waterloo.”

  “Yes, sir, but not that where—if you take my meaning—the other where.”

  “Not that where but …” The earl went stiff as his shirt points. “Not in front of your sister!”

  “Why not in front of me?” Amanda returned. “Lord Earnshaw sat on a pillow right beside me.”

  Lord Hampton fell in a daze into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. “Surely not at Lady Cottingham’s!”

  “No, when he took me driving. He said leather was chilly this time of year, but it struck me odd.”

  “To say the least.” Lord Hampton glowered again, this time at a spot somewhere above the heads of his children, as he reviewed his interview with Earnshaw and recalled the remark that had sent him into a choking fit.