A Rogue's Rescue

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Thanking the quick wit that her friend so seldom exhibited, Ariadne put one gloved hand to her forehead.

  “Miss Lambert,” Dorsey said, in melting tones. “Are you unwell? May I be of assistance?”

  “Oh, that was a most unpleasant experience. Dancing with Lord Ingram, I mean, not speaking to Mrs. Beckwith.”

  “Did he upset you? I should challenge the beast!” Dorsey made a feint, as if to go after Ingram. When Ariadne did not catch his arm, as she was expected to, he turned back to her. “But perhaps I can be of more service by staying at your side?”

  “I would appreciate your arm, Mr. Dorsey. I feel quite . . . overcome.”

  “Let me take you to the terrace, Miss Lambert, where you could get a breath of fresh air,” Dorsey said.

  Ariadne nodded with satisfaction. “I would like that.”

  “I live to serve you, my dear Miss Lambert.”

  Chapter Four

  Ariadne sniffed the air appreciatively. There was a lingering scent of blooming hawthorn from a tree overhanging the terrace, and something else, something indescribable. Whatever it was made her buoyant, lighthearted, even. She was enjoying this far too much, considering the seriousness of her quest and the importance of success.

  Dorsey had her arm and guided her to a dark corner of the terrace. There was a low stone wall, and he seated her there and knelt at her feet. Chafing her hand, he then peeled back the edge of her glove and gently kissed her bare wrist.

  His lips were wet.

  Resisting the urge to hit him, Ariadne said, with a fatuous giggle, “Mr. Dorsey, you forget yourself!”

  “A million pardons,” he murmured. “I am overcome.”

  “You presume upon our acquaintance.” She withdrew her hand from his grasp, grateful that her maidenly confusion act would cover the fact that she found his touch repulsive.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, taking a seat beside her on the cool stone.

  Ariadne stayed silent. Still puzzling out the other scent on the air, the one she could not identify, she listened to all the night sounds of the city, the clop of horses’ hooves, the cry of the night watchman. They were in Mayfair miles from her Chelsea home, and she longed to be there this minute, in the solitude and shadowed peace of her terraced garden. The dance with Ingram still drifted through her mind, teasing her with unidentified longings that she would not linger over. Her great dread in life was to be ridiculous, and yet she feared she was on the verge of becoming so over a man whose character she worried was not all it should be.

  “What did you and Ingram talk about out on the dance floor, Miss Lambert?”

  His tone was casual. Too casual. Even if she did not know what he was, her suspicion would have been aroused.

  “To be honest, Mr. Dorsey,” she said, adjusting her spectacles and smoothing down her puce skirts, “we spoke of you.”

  “Me? What could a creature such as Ingram have to say about me?” His tone was haughty, but there was a tremor concealed by the forceful delivery.

  “I take it you do not like each other?”

  “I barely know the man. But I have heard . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Things no lady should learn of, nor ever will from my lips. Enough to say he is not to be trusted in a situation, say, like this one.” He sidled closer to her and pressed his damp palm over her folded hands, the moisture permeating her gloves.

  “But how am I to judge? He says things about you; you say things about him. Whom should I believe?” She had said it all with a plaintive whine in her voice. This was good. It was actually playing into her hands. She needed to express just enough doubt to not pique his suspicions. Too easy a pigeon, and he would not expose himself so thoroughly as she intended he should.

  “I have proof. Did he offer you any proof of his nasty lies?”

  “Nooo,” she said. Her heart thudded. Proof? What would he say? She hated gossip in the ordinary course of life, but some demon tweaked her to ask, “What proof do you have, sir? And of what?”

  Another couple drifted out onto the terrace and descended the stone steps into the garden, strolling down a path sheltered by a hedge. Dorsey was silent until they disappeared, flirtatious laughter floating behind them, and then he said, “I know the parties in this incident. I would not sully your ears with such a tale, but if you really want to know . . . all right. Ingram, to my certain knowledge, forced himself upon the wife of a very well-known gentleman. If that gentleman had not interrupted, Ingram would have . . . well, ravished her.”

  “But that is just old gossip, is it not, Mr. Dorsey?” It was what she had heard from Olivia, Ariadne thought. The same accusation seemed to be the only thing ever leveled against Ingram. “Did the lady not have him arrested?”

  “Of course not! It would have ruined her to have it known that she had been so close to ravishment.”

  “Oh. But people seem to know about it anyway.”

  “Let us not talk of others, Miss Lambert . . . Ariadne. May I call you that?”

  “You may,” she said, her voice breathy. She tried to get back into character as the dim, fatuous spinster flattered by the good-looking young man’s attention. “But only when we are . . . alone.”

  “I like the way you say that. Alone. I would like to be alone with you. Very alone.”

  “Would you?” Ariadne wanted to scream with impatience. Dorsey was getting closer, edging toward her. Twice now she had suggested the place they could meet to be private. What more did he need as encouragement? The man was far too cautious for the scoundrel he was. But perhaps that very caution was what had kept him from being found out on numerous occasions.

  He was silent, merely pressing her hand with a heartfelt look of adoration.

  Women described him as charming, but Ariadne had seen little evidence of that. Perhaps she just did not inspire him as other women had done. She was a plain, aging spinster, and yet that was just the type of woman men of Dorsey’s character preyed upon.

  Urging him back into speech, she repeated, “Would you indeed like to be alone with me . . . Edward?”

  “Of course he would.” A stocky figure, cigar in hand, stepped out of the shadows. “Then he could convince you to give him all your money or seduce you and threaten to ruin your reputation!”

  “Ingram!” Dorsey cried and stood.

  Ariadne wanted to scream with frustration. Just when . . . but had he been there the whole time? To hear his own reputation shredded?

  As he emerged from the shadows, it was with a detached smile, not at all charming as his grin earlier had been. There was something sinister in his expression and Ariadne wondered, what was true? Was he the dastard people called him? And why did he concern himself with her money and the disposal of it?

  This situation would take some work if she was to save it. What to do?

  “Lord Ingram, I think it is very ill-mannered of you to eavesdrop like that. Not at all what one would expect of a gentleman.” She snipped her words off like errant threads, made her tone as prim and foolish as possible. Let Dorsey think she despised Ingram’s “low” behavior.

  “I am not a gentleman. And neither is Dorsey, here.” His drawl was lazy, but his dark eyes snapped. He strolled toward them, flicking ash away and circling the quivering Dorsey like a cat around a mouse.

  Worse and worse. Ariadne tore her gaze away from Ingram’s powerful form. He was too easy to watch, to admire, and her mind was storing up images that would likely haunt her dreams for many nights. She snapped, “I do not think it is incumbent upon you to decide what Mr. Dorsey is.” Oh, dear. That had been incautious, for it was said in her normal tone, not that of the foolish, gullible spinster she was supposed to be.

  Ingram’s gaze fastened on her. “You puzzle me, Miss Lambert. I had pegged you as a silly woman. I should leave you to your own devices. And yet, I sense an intelligence beneath it all.”

  Oh, very much worse. The one thing she did not want Dorsey to think was that she was intelligent.<
br />
  She made a moue of distaste. “Oh, my lord, how cruel you are. Of all things, a lady must not be intelligent. I had much rather be thought . . .” She gagged, but then surged ahead. “. . . pretty.”

  That had done it, given him the necessary disgust of her. Ingram nodded. “I have told you what I think, Miss Lambert. Just say the word, now, and I will leave you with your . . . beau.”

  Backbone ramrod straight, she lifted her head haughtily. “I would like you to leave us, Lord Ingram.”

  He bowed, and then fastened his gaze upon Dorsey. “Be warned; I am watching.”

  * * *

  Ariadne abandoned her quill and paced the floor. She had not been able to settle to anything all morning. The debacle of the previous night still haunted her and she could not make up her mind what to do about it. She had hoped to be much further now, and yet it did not appear as if she was going to accomplish her goal, and all because of the mysterious Lord Ingram.

  Dorsey had skittered off like a frightened beetle after the confrontation, saying nothing about seeing her again. Frustrated, Ariadne had spent the remainder of the evening delicately sounding out the few she knew at the ball about Lord Ingram.

  All agreed that he was a nasty customer to cross. One said that Ingram was a cheat and a thief, while another said that he was, at the very least, honest. Several hauled out the tired old rumor, the one about him being caught on the point of ravishing a woman. Ariadne was sick to death of that one, for no one could name the lady, nor could any ascribe a date to this supposed transgression. If it happened at all, it could have been a year ago or ten years. And yet all agreed it had taken place.

  She paced to the window. He was at the very least perspicacious. He had picked out her intelligence, and she could not think of a thing she had done that had revealed that, except for a vague something in her tone. But a scoundrel could still be smart. And compelling.

  As she pondered she realized that she had smelled his cigar; that was the indefinable scent on the terrace she had liked so much. It had been his scent, memorized from their dance together, a blend of smoke and male musk. All right, so she was attracted to him. She gave in to the knowledge, still not sure why it was so. He was not good-looking in any classic way. He was dark and solid and hard-featured.

  But he made her feel . . . womanly. They were of a height, and yet she did not feel ungainly with him. She was intelligent, but she did not feel superior to him, sensing a mental acuity at least the equal of her own. Her besetting sin was a tendency to look down on those with less in the brainbox than herself. His masculinity was thrilling and enticing, calling out to something within her she had never suspected was there, a longing to walk closer to danger, to reach out and touch fire.

  And yet there was no fear—nor hope—that it would go past what it now was, an acquaintance formed by him for the purpose of warning her about Dorsey. He was certainly the kind of man who would look for at least beauty in a woman, if not sophistication and elegance. She could boast none of those attributes. Her strength lay in her intelligence and a ruthless honesty. But he had bothered about her. Why on earth did he care?

  “Miss, someone at th’door,” Dolly, her maid, said, poking her head into the room.

  “Dolly, how many times have I told you that while I am working, I will not be disturbed?”

  “Oh, Ari, it is just me!” Olivia burst in and bustled over to the window where Ariadne had stopped her pacing. “I have the most delicious news. And a triumph, of sorts.”

  “Dolly, tea please,” Ariadne said, with a warning glance for her exuberant friend.

  The maid closed the door behind her, and Olivia laughed. “My dear, you are too cautious! She is just a maid.”

  “There speaks a woman who never ventures below stairs in her own house,” Ariadne said, dryly. “You would be horrified not only by how much your servants know about you but also how much they see fit to gossip about, and to whom they divulge their information. Anyone with a ha’penny would know the secrets of your boudoir.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Olivia said, waving her hands, a letter clasped in one of them. “We are almost successful. A few days only and we will see our plan complete.”

  “What do you mean? I told you what happened on the terrace last night. Dorsey will never come near me now.”

  “Oh, yes, he will. I spoke to his . . . ahem, ‘sister’ just this morning. She approached me at Gunter’s and gave me a message for you. From Dorsey!”

  Ariadne’s eyes widened and she drew her friend down to sit in a couple of hard chairs that were drawn up to a table by the window. “Tell me all!”

  “No, first things first! I will tell you what I heard after you left last night.”

  Dolly brought the tea tray and set it down with a plunk and a slosh. I really ought to discharge that girl, Ariadne thought, and then abruptly dismissed it from her mind as the maid left the room. “What have you heard? If it is just gossip, you know I do not care for it.”

  “Ah, but you will when you hear whom it concerns.”

  Ariadne poured, waiting patiently as Olivia drew off her gloves.

  “I was waiting for my carriage in the anteroom,” she finally said, “when I overheard two men quarreling. This is not gossip, my dear, but direct hearsay!”

  Ariadne did not correct her friend’s word usage, but listened.

  “One of the men was Lord Duncannon. He is that Scottish laird, you know. And he was speaking to . . . Lord Ingram! I would know that ill-tempered growl anywhere. Sounds exactly like my husband when he first awakens.”

  “And so?”

  “So, it is what they were saying! My dear, Duncannon told Ingram that he had better get the money to him soon, or it would be too late.”

  “What?”

  “Ariadne . . . it would be ‘too late.’ That is a threat! Ingram must owe Duncannon money and is unable to pay him back. Or perhaps blackmail for some indiscretion of Ingram’s! In either case, it clearly indicates he is out of funds! Perhaps he has spied you out for himself, and is trying to cut Dorsey out. Is that not interesting?”

  Ariadne felt a pang. It made too good sense. She had just been wondering why Ingram was bothering about her, but if he needed money, and she had been pointed out as wealthy . . . he was no better than Dorsey after all.

  She took a sip of tea and composed herself. She could not trust her voice just yet, and so she motioned to the letter on the table as she sipped.

  “Ah, yes,” the other woman said. “The letter. It is a note to you from Dorsey. Open it!”

  “You already know its contents, I do not doubt.”

  Shamefaced, Olivia nodded. “I could not resist.”

  Opening the letter and holding it up to the light, Ariadne adjusted her glasses. It was a brief note, poorly spelled. My deer Miss Lambert, it read. I kno there are Thos who would miss represent me, but I wish to Tell You All. Meet me at Voxall Friday nite and we can bee privat. Your dev’ted servent, etc., Dorsey.

  “The idiot does not say when or where to meet him!” Ariadne exclaimed.

  “His ‘sister’ said about seven, at the gate.”

  They discussed their plans, bickering over them, now that it appeared they were coming to fruition. Ariadne was in a contrary state of mind, and she did not want to think too deeply why that was so. By the time Olivia left she had a headache, something that generally only happened when she had been working too hard.

  But she should be glad Dorsey had not been frightened off, after all. He must be truly desperate. And so must Ingram.

  She sourly decided that no more work would get done that day, and was just ready to climb the stairs for a nap when a knock came at the door. “Dolly! Dolly! Oh, heavens.” She went to answer it herself and pulled it open with an angry jerk.

  There, standing on her pristine doorstep, was Lord Ingram himself.

  Chapter Five

  He was no better looking in the light of day than by candlelight, but unfortunately he still appeal
ed to her just as much. She was speechless.

  “Miss Lambert,” he said. “May I come in? You did say you entertain on Thursdays?”

  She silently stood back and then bustled past him, leading the way into her drawing room. He followed and glanced appreciatively around, and then frowned.

  “Somehow I expected Prinny and Maria and Caroline to have pride of place in your drawing room, Miss Lambert. Silk cushions, bowls of cream.” He paused. “Diamond collars.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your cats,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully as he strolled the perimeter of the room, touching a Rouen jardinière that held a jade plant, and then stopping to admire a wood piece on a gilt stand. “What is this?” he asked, reaching out and tracing the carving.

  “It is a carved finial from a pew in a Norman church that was torn down many years ago in my home village. I rescued it. They were going to use it for firewood.”

  He touched it lightly. “Lovely carving. How many would think of making it such an interesting object of statuary?” He straightened and gazed at her again.

  She shrugged.

  “So where are they?”

  “What?”

  “Where are Prinny et al.?”

  “Oh. Dead.”

  “All of them?”

  Ariadne snapped back to her senses. “Nonexistent, merely. I was having fun with you the other night, my lord. My own little joke. I have no cats. I dislike them.”

  “Really? I rather like cats. They generally have impeccable taste in humans, and they are smart and calculating. I like intelligent beasts. And intelligent humans.”

  She was not going to ask him to sit down, nor would she give him tea. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him as he stalked the room. It was no wonder he liked cats; he was very much like them, prowling and stopping to evaluate objects, touching her favorite brass bowl and a Waterford crystal decanter. What was he doing here? What was his purpose?