Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  After a quarter hour, the mare stopped at his command and he was at her side, disengaging one boot and then the other. “I’m going to lift you off, all right?”

  Grace nodded, mutely. And then his large hands spanned her waist entirely and he was swinging her off his horse.

  “Can you stand?”

  She tried her legs and they felt odd, pudding-like. “Yes, I think I can.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Good. And how are we feeling?”

  “We are feeling perfectly fine. Why?”

  “You had me that worried. You said not a word.”

  “No? Well, I assure you I was having a delightful conversation with myself.”

  A measure of relief and amusement flooded his expression. “Really? And what were you discussing?”

  “I was telling myself that I now understand what you were trying to explain to me, albeit very wretchedly, when I left Yorkshire.”

  “And what thing was that?”

  “That while you enjoy leading someone else about, you are not the sort who can tolerate being led yourself. You don’t follow others. And you prefer living alone. I can actually understand that. But…”

  “Yes?”

  “If it’s not true, don’t tell me. Otherwise, I don’t think I could continue our budding friendship. You do want to continue on, don’t you? Never in the fashion of those days in Yorkshire, but as casual acquaintances after today. That’s really why you came to see me before returning to Yorkshire, isn’t it?”

  “Still carrying on both sides of the conversation, I see.” There was laughter in his eyes. “You, Lady Sheffield, are the most forgiving, most kindhearted lady I’ll ever have the pleasure to know.” He pushed back the hat’s veil that covered her eyes.

  “That’s not how I wish for you to remember me,” she said archly.

  “No? And how would you like me to think of you, then?” His eyes traveled from her eyes to her lips, and her throat constricted.

  Inches away from the very thing that brought her such heartbreak, she found she couldn’t tell him the truth of it. “Well, I’ve always thought my restraint quite admirable. I should be given credit for not bashing your head when you threatened me with a horse twitch.”

  “Actually, I believe I threatened to tie you up like a calf before his ballocks are removed.”

  She tilted her chin. “What’s the difference, really?”

  He pursed his lips to keep from laughing. “Well,” he scratched his jaw, “I’m sure the calf would have a thing or two to say about it.”

  She opened her mouth but he stopped her with two fingers to her lips.

  “You always change the subject whenever I try to flatter you, sweetheart, which leaves me few options on how to best soften your heart so you will look kindly on a request from Mrs. Kane.”

  “But, you merely have to ask. There are few things I would refuse her.”

  “She would like you to do her the great honor of joining everyone at the foundling home for a few hours on Christmas Eve. I’m afraid she has her heart set on it. Victoria Givan and I will be organizing all the activities for the children.”

  Victoria Givan. How could she have forgotten the ravishing Miss Givan?

  “And then there will be the meal, of course.”

  “Of course,” she echoed.

  “Well, will you come? Or will you disappoint Mrs. Kane?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have an odd turn to your countenance just now. What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” she lied.

  “You were worried I was going to suggest more riding lessons, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  The light of wry disbelief filled his yellow eyes. “Are you saying you’d actually enjoy another lesson in future?”

  “Perhaps, although I don’t want you to trouble yourself about it. Actually, I think I know now what I was really afraid of all these years. Everyone thought I was terrified of falling off, of hurting myself, but it wasn’t that. It was something else.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I was afraid of being the cause of another innocent animal’s death. Of having to hear the sound of a pistol shot. I think I wanted to ride your horse because I knew you’d never blame me or Sioux if I was silly enough to fall off.”

  “I’d never blame you for anything. I wouldn’t even blame you if you never wanted to see me again for the rest of your natural-born life.” But there was a glimmer of hope, or perhaps it was just mirth, in his eyes.

  “I’ll come tomorrow night. If only for a little while. A very little while.”

  He picked her up and whirled her about while his laughter filled the air. “Come anytime after six o’clock. Oh, and Grace?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you really want to know how I shall always remember you at Brynlow?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied.

  He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Your unpracticed seduction will haunt me for the rest of my days.”

  “I did not seduce you.” She would withstand this. She took one step away to put distance between them, yet she could not help but take a measure of pride in what he had said.

  A grin decorated his face. “No? Well, sweetheart, I beg to differ. And you can rest assured I shall always follow your lead to one place at least.”

  She snorted in exasperation. “And what place is that, Mr. Ranier?”

  “To paradise, darling.”

  Chapter 13

  Michael’s feelings of jubilation were soon extinguished when he found himself in the unfortunate position of escorting the Duke of Beaufort back to the edge of Mayfair from Ranelagh a quarter hour later.

  “My dear sir,” began the duke. “You do me a good turn coming to my aid. Never been to those pleasure gardens in my life. Too much temptation, if you were to ask me. Too many hares, and not enough powder and shot.” The portly man guffawed.

  “Forgive me for not leading you precisely to your door, Your Grace, but my lodgings are in the opposite direction,” Michael replied, full of discomfort. He hated Mayfair, hated the risk he took in coming to this well guarded portion of town. He tugged his tall hat as low on his head as possible.

  “No, of course, sir,” Beaufort replied. “You were good to accede to my wishes. Especially when I’m certain you’ve little desire to spend time with me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” They were nearly a quarter of a mile from Mayfair, and with every step closer, Michael became poised for flight, his knees grinding the saddle flaps.

  “It’s quite obvious you’re smitten with the countess. Would have liked to get in the carriage with her, no?” He winked. “I say, though, you’re looking quite high above your station. Knew the earl well. Excellent shot. Very devoted to her. But you’ll be delighted to know I shall champion your efforts.”

  Michael’s attention was riveted by three riders, their horses approaching at full gallop. There was only one reason men would set such a pace. His heart leaped to his throat and he swallowed against the knot, barely understanding a word of the foolish man beside him.

  “I’m quite selfish in my motives, of course,” the duke continued, oblivious. “If the countess will have you, then perhaps the dowager duchess will be tempted to visit my seat in Yorkshire on occasion.”

  The riders were almost upon them, the cutlasses visible like beacons in the gray dinginess of the cobbled street. Christ. Bow Street runners. Michael tried to regulate his breathing. He’d been a fool to risk coming to London. And they were close to Manning’s Livery—far too close. He’d sworn never to tread so close as a hundred miles of the place again. And as if the duke could read minds, the pompous man continued his monotonous rant in a new direction.

  “Have you seen the new yards at Manning’s? Just saw them myself yesterday. Three times the size of Tattersall’s now. Who’d have guessed that upstart would grow so far and so fast? From a paltry livery owner to one of the most r
eknowned men in London. But for all that, he’s still nothing more than a bastard with vulgar pretensions of grandeur. Indeed, can’t imagine why he enjoys the Prince Regent’s patronage. Richard Tattersall is at least a gentleman if not a lord.”

  The three Bow Street runners slowed to a trot as they approached to pass, and Michael brought his hand to the rim of his hat to partially shield his face.

  “Well, ho!” The duke hailed the runners. “Off to find a criminal, are you? Who are you looking for?”

  One man halted as the other two continued past. “A thief, sir. Did you happen to see a grimy boy not above four and ten, running with a sack? He nipped a gen’l’man’s greatcoat not twenty minutes ago.”

  “A hanging offense,” the duke said with a grimace. “Why, the idea. We shall be on the lookout for the scallywag. If we find him, shall we shoot him for you?”

  “Got to catch up with me mates, sir. But by all means grab the thieving little devil if you see ’im.” The runner tipped his hat before riding on.

  “Well, I like that. A larcenist in Mayfair. It’s the reason I prefer the country. We know how to catch and dispose of riffraff in Yorkshire. You will see how it goes once you’ve settled there. Why, gypsy vagrants, beggars, and other trash never dare set a hair in our neighborhood, Mr. Ranier.”

  The man was preening and crowing so much that he failed to notice the tiny waif hiding behind a dung heap in the alley they passed. Michael would have wagered his life that a greatcoat was tucked in the pouch the ragged, thin boy carried.

  “And how do you manage it, sir?”

  “Why, we shoot first and ask questions later. Saves us the trouble of guarding and feeding them before a hearing. A trial would only to prolong their misery, don’t you think?”

  “Very enlightened.”

  “I’m so glad you see it that way, Mr. Ranier. As former Lord Lieutenant of our county, I’m always looking for like-minded gentlemen to recommend for the stipendiary magistrate position. It is good to know I will be able to count on you, sir.”

  “Oh, you may depend on me, Your Grace. I shall ever and always look upon beggars and vagrants with the same eye I cultivated in my youth.”

  The Duke of Beaufort glanced at him with a comical mixture of suspicion and arrogance.

  “Here we are. Just a few more blocks before St. James’s Square.”

  “And where are you off to now, sir? Where are your lodgings? Surely you have a moment more to join me for a fortifying cup of something stronger than tea? And I will condescend to show you Beaufort House. The armory is not to be missed.”

  Michael kept a steady gaze on the awful gentleman who embodied everything he most disliked about the aristocracy of England. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I think I shall see if I can find that thief. Wouldn’t want you to have to blacken your hands with a rover.”

  The duke raised his chin and his wattle jiggled. “Good man. Perhaps you should take my pistol.”

  “No, I won’t hear of it. I don’t want to put you out.” Michael thought he might just shoot the duke between his peepers given the chance. “But if I don’t hurry along, I might miss him. You know how wily and difficult criminals are. Especially young, hardened ones.”

  The man hesitated, confusion battering his small brain-box. “Well, then, I bid you good day, sir.”

  “Good day to you, too.” You old bugger. Michael wended his way quickly back to the alley, taking care to employ evasive tactics lest someone saw him.

  Noting several shadows of blighted humanity as he searched, Michael finally spied the boy, still hiding behind the dung heap. Returning to London had only served to remind him how powerless he was given the magnitude of the wretched poor lurking everywhere.

  “You there,” he called to the boy, “come out. The runners are headed south. I have something for you.” Michael reached for the guineas in his pocket and tossed the boy half of what he held. “Leave the coat. It will only lead you to the gallows.”

  The boy was covered in grime; even the whites of his eyes appeared dingy. He bowed his head after retrieving the coins.

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  “’Ere and there, guv’nor.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “James.”

  James…Christ, it was his own father’s name. “And other than thieving, are you employed?”

  “Was, sir. Chimney sweep. Got too big fer it. Was turned out well nigh a fortnight ago.”

  “I see. Well, if I promise you employment, will you come with me?”

  The boy lowered his head like a dog. “Are you going ter turn me over?”

  “No. Now you will either have the good sense to find your way to the foundling home at Lamb’s Conduit Fields, where you will tell Mrs. Kane that I sent you—and where I will meet you later this afternoon—or you will be foolish and end up dead or transported for life. It’s your choice, James.”

  The boy gave Michael a long searching look and then nodded once before dropping the sack and racing back through the alleyway behind him. Michael gave it an even chance of ever seeing the boy again. Trust was something learned, and boys such as James had never been given the chance to comprehend the notion.

  As Michael went on to gather the odd assortment of goods needed to ensure a memorable day for the children on the morrow, he wondered if he too was manacled by the past. He questioned if he was an adult version of that boy, unable to trust or to expect the best that life had to offer because he was not grounded properly. In his mind, he struggled to clear a path that would allow Grace into his life despite the clutter of his impossible past. The way appeared mired in far too much danger for her and it left Michael flummoxed.

  He had everything he needed, finally—a small property that would prosper in future to ensure his comfort and the comfort of others, such as the Lattimers and that boy James. And yet, he wanted more. He wanted Grace.

  Was life always filled with insatiable wanting?

  Just then, on the way to a lumberyard for his final purchase, Michael’s attention was caught by the jangle of carriage traces at the crossroads ahead. A smart pair of matched chestnuts crossed in front of him, dressed out in the telltale dark blue and gold colors of Manning’s Livery. A chill of recognition froze Michael’s thoughts.

  God. He was such a fool. Why was he leaving everything to such risk? He had to leave. Very soon. He did not want to be one of those reckless sods who lost everything for wanting the impossible. And more important, he could not…would not…put Grace in peril.

  She was being so imprudent about all of this, Grace thought, as she waited for the gatekeeper at the foundling home to open the tall black iron gates for her carriage to enter. Yes, there seemed to be no end to the lengths she would stoop to make a greater fool of herself where Mr. Michael Ranier was concerned.

  She should have accepted Quinn and Georgiana’s invitation tonight. All of the widows in the club, and their burgeoning families, would be there to celebrate the season. But no, she just couldn’t pass up another occasion to see him. To drift ever closer toward further heartbreak, she thought cynically, because really, until she experienced out-and-out disaster a third time, she might never learn that she was not meant to find any sort of happiness with someone else. And, in the end, it didn’t matter. She had already decided that she could find contentment all by herself.

  Her carriage’s wheels crunched the hard-packed sandy path leading to the entryway of the U-shaped structure, the chapel separating the boys’ wing from the girls’ wing. While she descended, one of the carriage drivers unpacked the provisions she had brought.

  “Mrs. Kane,” Grace said, when the mistress rushed forward to greet her. “You’re very kind to have extended an invitation to me tonight.”

  “Your ladyship is very generous to have accepted. I’m certain you had far more glorious entertainments in the offing,” Mrs. Kane replied. “And once again you honor us with more gifts, I see. I don’t know how to thank you properly.”

&nb
sp; Grace pressed a sheaf of papers bound with ribbon into the lady’s outstretched hands. “These are the donations from the other evening. And a little more from my good friends, the Marquis of Ellesmere and the Duke of Helston, as well as, uh, an anonymous donor. I know you will put it to good use.”

  Mrs. Kane untied the ribbon; her face blanched at the enormity of the bank drafts within.

  “Mrs. Kane, you are not to say a word. Tonight it is Christmas Eve, and I’ve come to help you make merry for a short while.”

  Mrs. Kane laughed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Make merry? Why, I rather think you’ve just ensured that for the next twelve months if not longer, my lady. Shall we adjourn to the chapel, then? Perhaps I can give you another tour of the—”

  “No, no, Mrs. Kane. I don’t want to take you away from the children. And I understand there are to be amusements and such.”

  “Of course. Mr. Ranier and Miss Givan have arranged the games and everything. Do you know Hot Cockles, Lady Sheffield, or Shoe the Wild Mare?”

  Grace shook her head. “No, but I should like to learn.”

  Mrs. Kane smiled and Grace followed the older woman as she bustled down a corridor, her key fob jangling with every step.

  A chorus of shouts and giggles met them on the other side of the double doors. Such a scene…A crowd of children filled the hall, a circle carved out in the middle. A young girl with a starched pinafore, identical to all the aprons on the other girls, sat in the middle, a handkerchief tied as a blindfold. A boy rushed forward and tapped the girl on the shoulder while the other children goaded her to guess his identity.

  The child grinned. “It’s Tom. I guess Tom.”

  Hoots of laughter erupted and she tore off the blindfold.

  Michael Ranier strode toward the girl. “And how did you know him when you’ve not seen one of these boys all year, miss?”

  “Half the boys here are named Tom. The other half ’re John or Harry.” All the girls giggled and Grace could not help but smile too.