The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  Chapter Six

  When Benedict was a boy, his mother once told him his smile would be both the making of him and his destruction. One quick tilt of his lips, and people—ladies, in particular—would wish to please him, and rush to do his bidding. Her prediction had proved to be true for the most part, but his mother hadn’t counted on Georgiana Harley.

  Neither had Benedict, because here he was, standing on the street outside the Clifford School, peering up at a closed, locked door.

  What the devil had just happened? He’d pulled every weapon from his arsenal tonight. His most charming grin, his most sweetly persuasive tone of voice, a flirtatious wink, and a few judiciously applied sweeps of his eyelashes…why, he’d never been more irresistible in his life.

  But all he’d gotten for his trouble was an aching jaw from smiling. He’d done so much twitching and grinning that by the time she left him, Miss Harley’s expression had turned wary, as if she thought he were having some sort of fit.

  His coachman, Grigg, was waiting across the street with his carriage. Benedict waved him on, preferring to turn the mystery of Georgiana Harley over in his mind on a walk back to Berkeley Square.

  Half a mile later, he still couldn’t understand how it had all gone so terribly wrong, but one thing was certain. It was all Georgiana Harley’s fault. The confounded woman had as much sensibility as a block of ice.

  It had been a perfect disaster of an evening. He could salvage it still—it was just past midnight now, early by Benedict’s standards—but after his humiliation at Georgiana Harley’s hands, he wasn’t in the mood for a debauch with his friends.

  He stormed through the front door of his townhouse and marched down the hallway to his study. He wanted a fire, a glass of brandy, and silence, in that order—

  “Ah, here you are, Haslemere.” A tall, broad-shouldered shape detached itself from the fireplace when he entered. “I thought I was going to have to search all over London for you.”

  A curse left Benedict’s lips. How had he not noticed Darlington’s carriage waiting outside his townhouse? If he had, he would have ducked into the mews, gone in through the kitchens, and sneaked upstairs to his bedchamber.

  Cowardly, yes, but effective.

  But it was too bloody late now. “Well, you’ve found me, and right here in my own study. Clever of you, Darlington. What do you want?”

  Darlington raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dark scowl, Haslemere. What’s gotten you into such a temper?”

  “I’m not in a bloody temper.” Benedict was in a temper—as foul a temper as he could ever recall, and the worst of it was, he knew he was being absurd. Was he truly falling into fits because he’d found one lady in London who wasn’t charmed by him? It wasn’t as if he was charmed by her.

  Certainly not. He’d never met a pricklier woman in his life.

  Still, Benedict made an effort to hide his scowl. “Forgive me, Darlington. I’m a trifle…out of sorts. Will you have brandy?” He didn’t feel much like talking, but if anyone could set him back to rights again, it was Darlington.

  “I already have.” Darlington sipped from the tumbler in his hand with an appreciative nod. “You’re an ill-tempered fellow, Haslemere, but one can’t fault your taste in liquor.”

  Benedict filled a tumbler, then crossed the room and dropped into a chair with a sigh. “I’ve had a trying evening.”

  Darlington raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that. You live a charmed life, Haslemere.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again without bothering. In truth, he’d had precious little to vex him in his thirty-two years. Perhaps that was why he’d become such a wastrel. “Not charmed tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve been to Lady Wylde’s, and she—”

  “You were at Lady Wylde’s masque ball tonight?” Darlington frowned. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was, er…I spent a good part of it in Lady Wylde’s dressing room.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, and since Benedict didn’t choose to confess to spying and eavesdropping, it would have to do. “She was—”

  “Thank you, Haslemere, but I don’t want to know what you and Lady Wylde got up to in her dressing room.”

  “Not a blessed thing—”

  “Ah. Well, that explains your scowl. She rejected your advances?”

  “For God’s sake, Darlington. Listen to me, will you? I never made any advances. In fact, I chose an importune time to yawn and offended her feminine sensibilities. She fell into a temper and threw me out of her dressing room. But that’s not why—”

  “Just as well. That woman’s a viper. I can’t think why you’d want to get tangled up in her web.”

  “Vipers don’t have webs, Darlington. You’re thinking of spiders.”

  Darlington shrugged. “Nests, then, though I don’t see how that’s any better.”

  “If you think Lady Wylde is such a viper, what were you doing at her ball tonight? It’s not your sort of entertainment.” Darlington’s marriage had improved him immeasurably—happiness always did that for a man—but damned if he hadn’t developed a tiresome virtuous streak.

  Lady Wylde was many things, but virtuous wasn’t one of them.

  “I’ve spent most of the evening asking myself the same question. I had no desire to attend, I assure you, but Miss Harley asked Cecilia if we might accompany her there as a special favor.”

  Ah, ha. So, it had been her idea to attend! He’d been right all along. “What does Georgiana Harley want with Lady Wylde?”

  “No idea, and I know better than to ask. Cecilia agreed to go as a favor to Miss Harley, so we went.” Darlington’s voice took on the tender, husky quality it always did when he spoke of his wife. “I was surprised at it, though. Cecilia was, too. Miss Harley despises balls.”

  As far as Benedict could tell, she despised most things.

  “She didn’t say a word about why she wanted to go?” Benedict wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask. Of course, she hadn’t. Miss Harley’s tongue might be covered in barbs, but he’d seen for himself how well she held it. The woman was a cipher.

  “No. She didn’t confide in Cecilia, either. I suspect it’s some business of Lady Clifford’s, otherwise Miss Harley wouldn’t have been so secretive about it.”

  Secretive. Yes, that was a good word for it. Lady Wylde’s ballroom, more than any other in London, was swirling with scandals and gossip and secrets. The question was, which secret was Georgiana Harley chasing?

  Or whose?

  Benedict sipped at his brandy, then set his tumbler aside. “Did Draven ever appear at the ball, Darlington? Lady Wylde mentioned he planned to attend.”

  Darlington stared hard at him, then asked abruptly, “This is about Jane, isn’t it?”

  “Why would you assume it has anything to do with Jane?” Benedict asked, avoiding Darlington’s perceptive gaze.

  “Because I know you, Haslemere. You wouldn’t give up a night of debauchery with Lady Wylde for anyone other than Jane, or Freddy.”

  Benedict let out a dry laugh. “Is that a polite way of saying I’m a selfish, degenerate sot, Darlington?”

  “No. But you’ve been concerned about Jane all winter, when she and Freddy spent so much time in Surrey. So, what’s the trouble, Haslemere?”

  Benedict stared at the fire for a moment, watching the embers smolder in the grate. “I don’t know that there is trouble. Jane hasn’t said a word, but the truth is I’m…a trifle concerned.” More than a trifle, after hearing the gossip tonight.

  “I know you are. You’re not as mysterious as you think, Haslemere.”

  “I can’t make sense of it, Darlington. Jane tells me everything, but not a word of complaint has passed her lips about whatever it is that’s troubling her. Freddy is subdued, as well.” Benedict hesitated before meeting Darlington’s eyes. “You heard the rumors tonight, about Jane and Draven.�
��

  “I did.” Darlington swirled the brandy in his glass. “I don’t believe a word of it, and I can’t imagine you do, either.”

  Benedict shook his head. “No, but I know my sister, and she hasn’t been herself for months now. She’s never kept a secret from me before, and I can’t help but think…whatever is amiss, it’s bad, Darlington. Bad enough she’s afraid to tell me.”

  Darlington was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “What do you mean to do about it?”

  Benedict sighed. He should have known he’d end up confessing the whole of it to Darlington. “I went to the Clifford School tonight. I was there when you dropped Miss Harley off.”

  Darlington snorted. “I know. I saw your carriage. I told you, Haslemere—you’re not nearly as stealthy as you think you are. Next time tell Grigg to wait a few blocks away.”

  “Well, Darlington, since you know everything, then it must have occurred to you Miss Harley asked you to bring her to Lady Wylde’s ball because she and Lady Clifford are prying into Jane’s affairs.”

  “I don’t know that that’s true, but I admit it did occur to me, yes. If Jane is in any difficulty, Miss Harley will find out what it is. She’s a clever lady.”

  Georgiana Harley’s stubborn expression flashed in Benedict’s mind. “Clever, yes, but the woman has all the warmth and compassion of a stick of wood.” Just thinking of those cool brown eyes was making Benedict’s temper spike.

  Darlington made a noise that sounded like a smothered laugh. “Casting aspersions on Miss Harley’s good name, Haslemere? I will do you the favor of not repeating your ungentlemanly description to Cecilia. Now, I take it you tried to pry some information out of Miss Harley?”

  “I did. She refused to say a word.” Mulish, bad-tempered, stony-faced chit. Pretty eyes, though. Were they truly brown after all, or—

  “You mean to say she said no?” Darlington set his tumbler aside with extreme care, as if everything he’d ever believed about the world had just been turned inside out. “To you?”

  “Yes, damn her.” It was just beginning to sink in how little information he’d pried out of her. Not only hadn’t she told him who Clara Beauchamp was, but she’d refused to say who’d asked her to delve into Jane’s affairs, or if she even was delving into them.

  Darlington chuckled. “You were bound to stumble across a lady who’s immune to your charms sooner or later.”

  Benedict pounded a fist on his knee. “I tell you, Darlington, nothing I said could move her in my favor. I swear she’s got a cold, dead stone where her heart should be.”

  “There must be some way to persuade her.”

  “How? I tried everything I could think of. I smiled and flirted and charmed myself to exhaustion. I was bloody adorable, and it didn’t do a damn bit of good.”

  Darlington rolled his eyes. “Flirting won’t work with Miss Harley. There isn’t a bit of the coquette in the lady. You’ll have to think of some other way.”

  “How am I to know what she wants?” All Benedict knew was she didn’t want him. Once he’d determined that, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with her.

  “Well, she must want something, Haslemere. I haven’t yet met a person who didn’t.”

  Benedict was quiet as he wracked his brains for any insight into what a woman like Georgiana Harley might want. A horsewhip, perhaps? A razor-edged blade to match her tongue? He could only think of one thing, and God knew she needed it to sweeten that sour temper of hers. “She’s ah…she’s fond of preserves.”

  Darlington’s lips twitched. “Preserves?”

  “Yes. I startled her when I came upon her this evening, and she dropped the jar of preserves she was carrying.” It had looked to Benedict as if the loss of those damned preserves was going to drive her to tears.

  Darlington started laughing. “You spoiled her jar of quince preserves? Well, I’m no longer surprised she refused to help you. Cecilia gave them to her tonight, and Miss Harley was delighted with the gift. Apparently, she’s mad for sweets, especially those preserves.”

  Benedict had a hard time imagining Miss Harley mad for anything. “Do you suppose Lady Darlington can get me another jar?”

  “I don’t think a jar of preserves will work, Haslemere. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Those bloody preserves. It was the only time she showed any emotion the entire time he was in her company—

  No, that wasn’t true. He’d seen her show emotion once before—the first time they’d met, that night in Covent Garden all those months ago. She’d been furious when she’d come upon him with Sarah and Susannah, outraged to find a rakish lord was trifling with her girls. Why, if she’d had a blade to hand, he didn’t doubt she’d have plunged it into his heart.

  Those girls—or her girls, as she’d called them that night…

  She might not care a fig about his flirtatious winks and insinuating grins, but she wasn’t entirely immoveable. “The girls at the Clifford School—her pupils. Miss Harley may be a hard-hearted, unfeeling, pitiless wretch, but she does care about those girls.”

  “She does. About Lady Clifford, too. I know Cecilia would do anything for her ladyship. I’d wager Miss Harley would, as well.”

  “Darlington, you’re brilliant.” Benedict hadn’t, in fact, tried everything he could to pry information from Georgiana Harley’s stubborn lips. He hadn’t tried bribery. “Money, then. How much should I offer her?”

  “No, not money—”

  “Well, what then?” Benedict threw his hands in the air, exasperated. Flirtation wouldn’t do, and neither would bribery? Damned if Georgiana Harley wasn’t the most troublesome female in existence.

  “I have a better idea—something that will be impossible for her to refuse. It’s not really my place to tell you this, but I’m fond of Jane, and if she needs help, then for her sake I—”

  Benedict groaned. “For God’s sake, Darlington, will you just say it?”

  “Lady Clifford wants to expand the Clifford School. She’s been looking for a building for the better part of a year, but she can’t find one that suits.”

  Ah. At long last, a glimmer of hope. Benedict leaned forward in his chair. “What would suit?”

  Darlington shrugged, but his eyes were gleaming. “Something large. They’ve got girls tucked into every corner of the Maddox Street building.”

  “You mean, a building like my grandfather’s townhouse on Mill Street, only a few blocks east of Maddox Street? That sort of large, empty building?” Benedict had inherited the townhouse as part of the Haslemere earldom, but he preferred his own townhouse in Berkeley Square. He’d never had any bloody idea what to do with the Mill Street building. It had stood empty for years.

  “Yes, I think that building would do nicely. Do you suppose you could come to some sort of agreement with Miss Harley?”

  Benedict’s mouth curved in a broad smile. “You know what, Darlington? I think something could be arranged.”

  * * * *

  Ping.

  The first time she heard the noise, Georgiana was certain she’d imagined it. When she heard it the second time—ping—she made up her mind to ignore it. But the third, fourth, and fifth times, one ping after the next in rapid succession, had her tossing her coverlet aside and dragging herself from her bed.

  She paused in the middle of the darkened room, listening, but now that she was fully awake, the noise seemed to have magically ceased.

  Because of course, it had.

  Dash it, why did these strange noises only plague her? For a practical lady, she seemed always to catch the brunt of every imaginary thump and creak—

  Ping.

  Ah, there it was. It was coming from the window, like…raindrops pattering against the glass? No, it sounded more like small pellets of ice, but it was the middle of April in London, for pity’s sake. An ice storm was unl
ikely at this time of year, but unless someone was tossing pebbles at her window—

  Georgiana froze.

  Someone was tossing pebbles at her window.

  She tiptoed toward it, her heart rushing into her throat, because somehow she thought she knew what she’d find when she looked outside.

  Who she’d find…

  Georgiana twitched the curtains aside and peeked out, taking care to keep her face hidden with a fold of the linen. At first glance, she didn’t see anything but the darkened street below, but as her eyes adjusted a darker shadow began to take shape. Not a shrub, but a bigger, broad-shouldered shape, with impossibly long, sturdy legs.

  The shape of a man, a man who looked very much like…

  Georgiana let out a soft gasp and darted back behind the curtain. Dash it, it really was him! What was he doing, assaulting her window in the middle of the night? No, she must be having a dream—

  That is, a nightmare. Not a dream, but a nightmare.

  Ping.

  A nightmare was managed easily enough. She’d simply burrow under her covers and drag her pillow over her head, just as she would with any other nightmare.

  Ping, ping, ping.

  An earl-shaped nightmare loud enough to wake the dead, or at least to wake Daniel Brixton.

  Ping.

  It was the thought of Daniel more than anything else that had Georgiana tugging the drapes aside and jerking up the window. “Have you gone mad?” she hissed. “What in the world do you think you’re doing, my lord?”

  There was a pause, then the absurd man swept his hat from his head, and sketched an extravagant bow. He actually bowed, as if he’d met her on the promenade in Hyde Park. “Good evening, Miss Harley.”

  “There’s nothing good about it,” Georgiana snapped. “Go away, before Mr. Brixton sees you and fires a pistol ball into your skull.”

  She ducked back inside, but before she could close the window, his voice drifted back up to her. “I have a business proposition for you. Come down and let me in.”