Julia Justiss

by Wicked Wager

  “And what of our bargain? In all this excess of do-gooding, I hope you will not forget that!”

  She smiled, the idea forming even as she voiced it. “Indeed not. You can assist me in my ‘do-gooding.’ After all, what better way to reform a character?”

  He groaned. “I had more in mind assisting you to attend balls, routs, musicales and Venetian breakfasts.”

  “I suppose we could fit in a few…between visiting needy folk, inspecting properties and then staffing and equipping the farm once the purchase is complete.”

  He shot her an aggrieved glance. “Perhaps my character doesn’t need quite that much improvement.”

  He’d just, she immediately realized, provided her an avenue of escape from the unsettling temptation of his company. “I imagine it doesn’t. ’Twas a ridiculous bargain anyway. Why don’t we call it off at once?”

  A look almost of dismay flashed across his face, too swiftly for her to positively identify it. Then he shrugged, the picture of bored hauteur. “If you think so little of upholding the vow you swore to honor the dead of Waterloo, I suppose we could. Or perhaps you are prepared to concede I am already their equal?”

  He had her and he knew it. Casting a jaundiced eye over his deceptively bland demeanor, she snapped, “Prepare yourself to visit the needy and inspect properties, then.”

  “If I must, but I certainly shall not depress myself by thinking about it ahead of time. Have we not had enough of duty and sacrifice today? ’Tis time to contemplate a bit of pleasure to reward ourselves for such an excess of virtue. What function do you attend tonight?”

  “My cousin and Lady Montclare are urging me to go to Lady Winterdale’s musicale.”

  “Then I shall sit beside you, whisper in your ear until you blush and make all your other swains jealous.”

  “And I shall rap you with my fan if you’re impertinent, keep you at arm’s length and dismiss you entirely if I cannot make you mind your manners.”

  “Sounds delightful,” he pronounced with a grin. “When and where shall I meet you, my dear Jenna?”

  “I am not your ‘dear Jenna,’ as I’ve been meaning to point out. You should address me as ‘Lady Fairchild.’”

  “And so I do, when we are in company. But I began calling you ‘Jenna’ long ago and I’m afraid it’s too late for me to unlearn the usage. In fact, given our long association, why don’t you call me ‘Tony’?”

  Ignoring the invitation, she replied, “As I recall, you usually referred to me as ‘Miss Montague,’ in a singularly odious, top-lofty tone.”

  “Did I?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “What an arrogant ass I was, to be sure!”

  “Was?”

  His grin turned into a chuckle. “Still am, you mean. Ah, did I not warn you that my character needs much work?”

  Recalling the courtesy he’d shown her here in London and the depth of his concern about the former soldiers, she replied, “Perhaps less than I used to think.”

  His grin faded. With slow deliberation, he focused on her a hot, lingering glance that sparked a thrill of feminine awareness all the way to her core. “Are you sure about that?” he drawled.

  Doubtless he knew exactly the effect that look produced in her, the wretch. She mustn’t forget he’d earned the rake’s reputation that followed him to the army. Squelching her response, she replied, “Lord Nelthorpe, a gentleman does not fix on a lady such a gaze.”

  He returned an innocent look. “What gaze?”

  “The gaze that says he wishes he might relieve her of her garments on the spot,” she continued tartly.

  “Even if he very much wishes to?”

  Instead of a teasing tone, his voice now held an undercurrent of…longing. Startled, she felt her face heat. “Certainly not. Such wishes should be directed toward more suitable objects—among the muslin company.”

  “Ah. True ladies never experience such wishes?”

  She opened her lips to affirm that, but honesty made her hesitate. Mercifully, at this moment they reached the Fairchild House mews, saving her the necessity of a reply.

  “You may let us down here, Lord Nelthorpe.”

  The gleam in his eyes as he brought the cart to a halt told her he knew she was evading an answer. After helping them both alight, he thanked Sancha, who nodded and headed back toward the house, and gave Jenna a deep bow. “Until tonight, my lady.”

  “Goodbye, my lord. And thank you for taking me with you. It…it was good to feel useful again.”

  The rogue’s grin returned as he brought her fingers to his lips. “Putting you to good use shall always be my pleasure.” Chuckling once more at the reproving look she sent him, he climbed awkwardly back into the pony cart. “Now, to return this magnificent equipage before any of my acquaintance sees me driving it.”

  “Is the ruin of a reputation built on so little?”

  “Indeed it is,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “Keep that in mind.”

  “And the reforming of one?”

  “Is much more difficult than the losing. Keep that in mind as well.”

  “I shall.”

  With a nod, he set the cart in motion. Jenna watched until he’d guided the vehicle out of sight.

  With his recently acquired limp and his newly developed compassion, she mused as she strolled back to the house, Anthony Nelthorpe was a much more complex—and, she admitted, compelling—man than the arrogant, insensitive viscount who had repulsed and attracted her in Spain. Just when she was prepared to condemn him and his provocative remarks as being little better than the rake of old, he startled her with some display of concern—for her, for others—that prevented her from dismissing him so easily.

  Betsy, his cook, had told her he hid a good heart under his casual rakehell manner, hinted that the influence of his dissipated father had prevented his developing it. Jenna was halfway inclined to believe her.

  Perhaps his character didn’t need work so much as the opportunity to reveal its true dimensions, she concluded as she took the stairs to her chamber. Although whenever she voiced a more hopeful opinion of his character, Nelthorpe was quick to deflect it with another innuendo-laden remark or heat-inducing glance designed to scatter her thoughts.

  He succeeded only too well. Surely she shouldn’t be responding to Nelthorpe’s enticements! But then, she was a passionate woman whose passion had long been restrained.

  Given the ease with which Anthony Nelthorpe seemed to be loosening those fetters, perhaps her own character needed more work.

  She was about to open her door when she felt a touch to her shoulder. With a gasp, she whirled around.

  “Jenna, excuse me,” Cousin Lane exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No matter, cousin. I was woolgathering and did not hear you approach.”

  He looked her up and down, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “When Manson told me where you had gone, I couldn’t believe it! But seeing you in that…apparel, it no longer seems so fantastical a notion. Please, Jenna, assure me you didn’t go into the stews of east London!”

  “I’m afraid I cannot. Oh, Lane, I’d heard there are soldiers there, still dressed in the bloodstained tatters of the uniforms they fought in at Waterloo! Widows and children, starving, some homeless. I had to see for myself if such a report could be true.”

  “If discovering this was so important, you should have sent one of the servants who has relations in those areas. Merciful heavens, Jenna, the rookeries around Seven Dials are so dangerous, even Bow Street runners hesitate to go there! You could have been robbed at the least, at worst—” He shuddered, looking so appalled she felt a pang of guilt.

  Jenna took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but I’m not a witless female who faints at dirt or danger and must be protected from the realities of life. I’ve seen worse, and I’m quite competent at handling the pistol I took with me.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. “I know you a
re a remarkable woman, Jenna. Which only makes your safety even more important to me.”

  Though she regretted worrying him, she didn’t wish to encourage the heated look now glowing in his eyes. Gently she withdrew her hand. “I do appreciate your cousinly concern. But since Nelthorpe told me—”

  “Nelthorpe!” Lane cried. “I might have known that reprobate was responsible for this! Damme—dash it, could there be any more telling demonstration of how unsuitable an escort he is for you? Though I imagine he’s intimately acquainted with London’s stews, he ought to be shot for exposing you to such peril!”

  “Actually, he was no happier about taking me there than you are that I went and refused absolutely to do so until I threatened to go alone. If their country will do nothing for them, someone else must. To determine how best to help, I had to see for myself what they need.”

  Lane’s gaze flew to her face. “You intend to help them? How? I trust, in your womanly compassion, you don’t plan to bring any scrawny guttersnipes here!”

  The warmth his concern for her had generated began to chill. “Those ‘scrawny guttersnipes’ risked their lives in battle after battle so you might be able to sit in London at your leisure and sip port!”

  “I don’t mean to disparage the soldiers’ service. But the war is over now. ’Tis time they found some useful occupation, instead of loitering around gin shops and taverns grumbling about their fate and agitating against the government. Only think what happened to the Frogs when their lower orders were allowed to dissent.”

  His reactionary views stifled the last of her sympathy. “These men, who’ve taken the King’s coin, aren’t interested in revolution,” she replied impatiently. “All they desire is what should be freely offered them—a chance to engage in honest labor and earn enough to house and provide for their families.”

  Lane manufactured a thin smile. “So, how many are we to employ?”

  “One household cannot provide enough work even for those I’ve already met and I suspect there are many more. No, a much more comprehensive solution is needed.”

  Lane’s frown returned. “Just what do you intend?”

  “I am not yet perfectly sure. I must talk with my solicitor and make a more thorough canvass of the needs within the community. Perhaps I shall purchase a rural property where those who have farmed can lease land and establish a school to train the widows and youngsters.”

  Lane’s frown ceded to a look of paternalistic indulgence. “A laudable aim, my dear,” he said, patting her hand, “and a tribute to your feminine sensibilities, if wholly impractical! But your trustees would never approve such an expenditure.”

  For the second time that day, Jenna had the pleasure of shocking a gentleman by replying, “I have no trustees, dear cousin.”

  His expression was gratifyingly shocked. “No trustees? Surely you are mistaken! A female—even one as brave and accomplished as you, my dear—simply isn’t capable of managing finances. Consult your solicitor, but I’m certain your papa, fine officer that he was, set up proper provisions for your protection.”

  At least Nelthorpe, Jenna thought, by now thoroughly irritated with her cousin, had not questioned her ability to manage what was her own, despite his surprise over the admittedly unusual arrangement. “If you doubt my word, cousin, then you may consult him about it.”

  “Well, we shall see, I suppose,” he said after a short silence. “However matters stand, though, I beg you to think long and carefully before you attempt to implement so…radical a plan. Capable as you may be in other areas, you know nothing of managing agricultural property. The mere expense of purchasing a tract large enough to permit the scheme you’re envisioning would be enormous!”

  “By happy chance, so is my fortune.”

  “Even so, such an outlay might make severe inroads upon your principal. Bah, I shall not attempt to explain, but this could adversely affect current and future income.”

  Curbing the strong desire to frame a retort demonstrating her mastery of the intricacies of fund management, she decided to take another tack. “Oh, la, will it be as harmful as all that? Such a downturn in my fortune might make me a less attractive prize on the Marriage Mart. I must warn dear Lady Montclare of the sad fact, don’t you think, before she wastes any more time on me? Perhaps tonight at the musicale you and Aunt Hetty are pressing me to attend.”

  Lane sighed. “You are displeased with me, I see. But in my defense, let me protest that if I interfere, it is only because I care deeply about your well-being. I cannot stand by and see you taken advantage of by miscreants too lazy to earn their own keep—or fortune hunters pursuing their own gain.”

  “Then do me the honor of believing I am capable of guarding myself and my fortune from such dangers without assistance. If you’ll excuse me, cousin?”

  “I shall see you later, then, Jenna.”

  Turning her back on Lane’s bow, Jenna at last escaped into her room.

  She supposed Cousin Lane did wish the best for her, Jenna thought as she closed the door, though perhaps it was his hope of persuading her into matrimony that drove his concern that she not squander any of her fortune. If his regard was inspired more by her purse than her person, this conversation should bring about a chill in his ardor.

  Interestingly enough, the odd thought occurred, though he’d first expressed the same surprise as her cousin at the terms of her father’s bequest, Anthony Nelthorpe had then accepted the arrangement without further question.

  Nor, despite her cousin’s insinuation, had he hinted he hoped to figure as one of the beneficiaries of her largesse. His concern for the displaced soldiers—and the shame she’d seen in his face that he could do little to assist them—showed her this reputed rogue did possess the heart Betsy had claimed. And he had seemed willing to let her follow hers without dispensing paternalistic advice.

  Of course, Lane Fairchild had never seen her organize and manage an army camp on the march.

  Still, he evidently preferred that she remain ignorant of the injustices within their society and leave dealing with difficult or dangerous matters to gentlemen.

  Perhaps there was something to be said for a rogue.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AT MIDMORNING THE NEXT DAY, Tony paused in the front hallway before setting out. Observing the headway Sergeant Anston and the new maid were making in clearing away years of dirt and neglect made him feel buoyed and hopeful. Perhaps he could meet the challenges facing him after all.

  Now, to get to the truth of Jenna’s accident.

  Having been informed during their conversation at the musicale last night that she planned to consult her solicitor this morning, he was confident that when he reached Fairchild House, Jenna would not be at home. Whereupon he would ask to speak with Sancha, that she might convey a message from him to her mistress, as she often had on his visits during Jenna’s convalescence.

  Fortunately, since Sancha was unlikely to believe that excuse, their mission yesterday seemed to have raised him in her esteem. Out of curiosity, if for no other reason, he was reasonably sure she would agree to meet him.

  He arrived at Fairchild House to learn, as expected, that Jenna was out but that the maid would be down shortly. “What is it your lordship wants of Sancha?” she asked as she entered the room a few minutes later.

  “You are devoted to Lady Fairchild,” he began.

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Si. I make the vendetta against any who harm my mistress.”

  From the tone in which she made that pointed pronouncement, Tony gathered that though her opinion of him might have risen somewhat, his position in Sancha’s good graces was by no means secure.

  “I, too, am very concerned about Lady Fairchild’s safety. For her own protection, I must ask that you repeat to no one what I am about to confide in you. Will you swear that, by the Blessed Virgin?”

  Her eyebrows raised. “It is serious, this danger?”

  “I am not sure, else I would act, but it cou
ld be deadly. I wish to take no chances. Will you swear?”

  Sancha made the sign of the cross. “By the Blessed Virgin, I will tell no one. What harm threatens my lady?”

  “Did it not seem strange to you that your mistress, as experienced a rider as she is, would take a fall during a ride through the park?”

  “I am surprised. But when her esposo die, her heart die with him. Since then, she pays small attention to what happens about her.”

  “Did her horse truly need shoeing the day she borrowed Mrs. Thornwald’s mount?”

  Sancha raised her eyebrows. “This, I do not know. The horse was re-shoed, that is certain. Why ask you this?”

  “Was there no talk among the servants about how odd it was that the head groom made no mention to her of the animal’s unusual disposition?”

  “They say they expect he thought Mrs. Thornwald or Mr. Fairchild had told her. Madre de Dios!” Sancha gasped. “You think someone meant to harm my lady?”

  “I know two women ready to rejoice at her misfortune,” he replied grimly. “After pondering the matter further,” he lowered his voice to ensure no passing servant might overhear, “I realized someone else might be even more pleased if Lady Fairchild were never brought to bed of a son. The man that son would displace as viscount.”

  Sancha fixed her shrewd eyes on him for a long moment. “A viscount has much power and wealth, no?”

  “Who can guess what heinous act a man might commit to retain his grasp on such a prize?”

  “There is much wickedness in the world,” Sancha agreed. “But this Bayard, cousin to my lady’s husband, does not seem interested in such matters. Always he stays in the cellars, mixing his strange powders.” Sancha crossed herself again. “Doing the devil’s work, perhaps!”

  “If Jenna had borne a healthy son, they would no longer be his cellars,” Tony pointed out. “Nor his house, nor, probably, his funds to continue his experiments, though I don’t know yet what revenue he has. Have you heard it said—even in a whisper—that her fall might have been other than an accident?”