A Rogue's Rescue

by Donna Lea Simpson

  The stocky villain, off balance from Dorsey’s quick movement, stumbled and landed on her. Not one to suffer the indignity of being robbed, she did what came naturally.

  “Ow, for God’s sake, Miss Lambert, let go of my ear!”

  Ariadne released from her teeth the fleshy, and now bleeding, part of her “assailant” and stared up at him in the dimness. At that moment Olivia Beckwith, out of breath, erupted from the bushes.

  “Aha, Dorsey! You are caught now. You will marry this young lady . . . or . . . suffer . . . the . . .” Eyes wide, Olivia said, “Ari, what on earth are you doing lying on the ground under Lord Ingram?”

  “I am wondering the same thing.” Heart thudding like an infantry drum, Ariadne felt the unaccustomed weight of the man on top of her, and then met his eyes. In the dim light shed by a fairy lantern, she saw the utter confusion on his face as he held his poor ear. And she burst into inappropriate laughter.

  After a second’s pause he did the same, rolling off of her and putting out his free hand, while he still gustily guffawed. He helped her to her feet and wiped his eyes, wet from tears of laughter. They both noticed her newly unbalanced figure at the same time—she was lopsided from the lack of wadding—and fresh gales of laughter rippled over them as Ariadne held one hand to her bosom.

  But inevitably the laughter died. And then they stood staring at each other, with Olivia’s bemused glance going from one to the other.

  “I think, Miss Lambert, that it is time you told me what the devil is going on, because I cannot believe for a second that a woman of your character and intelligence would actually harbor feelings for that scoundrel.”

  Ariadne gazed at him steadily for a moment; then, not letting her eyes wander, she said, “Olivia, I think he is right. I am not going to have a moment’s peace until I tell him what we are up to and why. It is likely all ruined now anyway. Dorsey has run from my impetuous rescuer—I assume that is what you thought you were doing, sir?—like a rabbit from a wolf.”

  “But Ari . . .”

  “My house in Chelsea. Tomorrow morning at ten, my lord,” she said to Ingram. “And not a moment sooner, if you please. And have your valet see to your ear.”

  * * *

  Ariadne bustled around her drawing room, making sure the crystal was polished, pulling back the gauzy curtains to show the view of the sun sparkling off the water of the Thames. She couldn’t imagine why she was nervous. After the debacle of the previous evening—Dorsey had been nowhere in sight when the threesome had emerged from the Lovers’ Walk and departed—there was no point in the charade anymore, and so telling Ingram the whole story would be a wasted effort. But she wanted to. She wanted to talk to him without having to pretend to be an idiot.

  Not that she had remembered to most of the time. He had a way of keeping her off-kilter, never knowing what to expect next.

  He must have seen the note from Dorsey on the desk and read it in the very brief time he had, as he strolled past her desk during his Thursday visit. But why did he come to her rescue, a foolish spinster in his eyes?

  Olivia was supposed to arrive first, but when Dolly showed in the first visitor, of course it was Ingram. Her friend had never been on time for anything in her life, even her own wedding. He sauntered into the room, and Ariadne felt foolishly exposed. For seeing him again brought back all the forbidden feelings she had experienced when she first realized who it was lying on top of her in the dim recess of the Lovers’ Walk. Luckily, laughter had come next, along with the discovery of her depleted anatomy, and it had considerably eased the tension between them.

  But now she felt it all again, the untenable pounding of her heart, the unexpected rush of something unnameable. She felt hot, but would not allow herself to look away from his dark eyes. His very fine dark eyes. He was still not a handsome man, but his parts, taken separately, were attractive: the dark piercing eyes under heavy eyebrows, the handsome mouth, the corner of which lifted in a quirky, attractive grin on very rare occasion, the powerful broad shoulders and muscular legs.

  The bandaged ear.

  He had greeted her but she was staring inanely at him like an automaton doll. She jerkily moved forward and offered her hand. “Lord Ingram, welcome once again to my home.”

  “Thank you. For a moment I thought you had forgotten inviting me.”

  “Of course not. I may have had to appear foolish on occasion, but I assure you, I am not wandering. My faculties are all quite sharp.”

  “As are your teeth.” He ruefully touched his ear. “Yes, I had come to the conclusion that you are an extraordinarily intelligent woman. So why the charade for Dorsey? Do you really care for him? Is it to soothe his fragile self-image? You would not be the first lady to pretend to be less than she is to catch a beau.”

  “I had rather we wait for Olivia,” Ariadne said, indicating a chair by the window. “Will you have a seat, sir? I will have Dolly bring in coffee. Unless you would prefer something stronger?”

  “Coffee is fine. But I do not see the need to wait for Mrs. Beckwith when she so clearly already knows the whole story, and in fact is playing some part.”

  Ariadne admitted the truth of his statement. When Dolly arrived with the coffee tray and had been dismissed, she crossed and closed the door firmly behind her maid, and, coming back to the table by the window, poured heavy mugs of coffee for both of them.

  “First, sir, I must apologize for biting you last night. I thought you were an unknown attacker.”

  “Apology accepted, Miss Lambert. And I apologize for landing on you with all my considerable weight. Dorsey caught me off guard. I expected him to fight, not attempt to flee immediately.”

  “Apology accepted.” She handed him a cup and offered him cream, which he took. She left her own black and sugarless. She remembered in that moment the conversation Olivia had overheard between Ingram and Lord Duncannon. Was she making a mistake in trusting him? Did it really matter now?

  It did not. “About Olivia, I suppose we must now say that she was playing a part. We should speak of it all in the past tense now, for Dorsey is surely lost to us.”

  He sighed and nodded. “I puzzled it out last night; I take it I have befouled a plan to trap Dapper Dorsey?” He stirred his coffee, then crossed his legs and sipped the strong brew, sighing with satisfaction.

  She nodded, studiously keeping her eyes away from his powerful legs.

  “Why did you not tell me I was interfering early on, when I was clearly complicating things by insistently saving you from him?”

  She stayed silent. What could she say? She stared into her cup and chewed her lip

  “Of course,” he said, nodding with sudden understanding. “You didn’t know you could trust me to leave you be. Didn’t know you could trust me at all.”

  “You have an . . . uneven reputation.”

  He grinned and she found herself smiling over at him.

  “Miss Lambert, there is no need to mince words. My reputation is murky at best, black as night at worst.”

  And not justified. Somehow she felt that, though she would never be able to put that feeling into words. She edged toward verbalizing her feelings. “I didn’t quite believe it. People kept telling me the same stale story over and over as proof of your perfidy, but there was no lady’s name attached, nor time frame; it just did not hold together.”

  “Oh, but it is quite true, as far as it goes.”

  “What?”

  “I assume you speak of the old scandal, my being accused of near rape?” His voice was hard and his eyes glittered.

  Her cheeks burned and she nodded. How like him to not mince words. No forcible seduction in his vocabulary.

  “You didn’t believe it?”

  She shook her head and his dark eyes lost some of their hard gleam.

  “I . . .” She hesitated. She had been called honest to a fault. If she said something, it had to be the truth. “I still do not believe it, though you say it is true.”

  His dark gaze s
oftened, and the touch of it was almost physical as he stared deep into her eyes. “You are the first person ever to say that,” he said, and cleared his throat. “It is true that I was accused of trying to rape a woman.” He gazed out the window and furrowed his brow. “I was twenty-three, and I fell in love—”

  “You do not have to explain,” she said, her fist closing over the soft material of her elegant skirt.

  “I know I don’t have to.” He gave her a crooked smile. “But I will anyway. You have honored me with your belief; I will justify it, if I can.” Taking a moment to compose himself, he again stared out the window. “I do appreciate your view, Miss Lambert. You have impeccable taste.”

  “Thank you. It is the reason I bought this house.”

  After a pause, he launched into speech. “Anyway, I fell in love. With a married woman much older than I.” The words came out in jerky half sentences. “It was just after I attained my title. She was angry at her husband—he had taken a mistress of whom the wife did not approve—but I did not know that then. She arranged for him to catch us, to . . . .” He frowned. “To catch us in the . . . the act. She wanted him to be jealous, to feel as she felt. Someone else was with him, though, and so the story spread. To save his wife’s reputation—or perhaps the poor fool believed it—he told everyone that I was trying to ravish her, and that he rescued her from me.”

  “But it wasn’t true,” Ariadne said.

  “Rather hard to ravish a woman when she is on top of one and in charge of the situation,” he said, with a wry grin.

  Ariadne looked away in embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lambert. That was an inappropriate story and a wholly unsuitable remark to make to a lady.”

  She let him think that was the genesis of her blush. How could she say it was still the memory of his powerful form on top of her, and how his words made her think of that again? She had dreamt of it the night before, for it was the closest she had come ever to being seduced, strangely enough, and it had left her feeling oddly breathless. But he would never know that.

  Ever.

  “Let me tell you about my dealings with Dorsey, such as they are,” she said, pouring more coffee in his empty cup.

  Olivia Beckwith had a widowed friend, Ariadne told him, without mentioning the lady’s name. The woman was lonely and very, very wealthy. Dorsey was full of flattery and handsome. The outcome was inevitable; the widow was indiscreet and wrote letters, and now she was being forced to pay to keep those letters a secret. He was blackmailing her.

  Ingram gulped his coffee and slammed the mug down on the mahogany table, making the vase in the middle jump. Ariadne pushed it back to the exact center.

  “Filthy bloodsucker. How he gets away with such behavior, I do not understand,” he grunted. He folded his arms across his chest. “He continually does such despicable things, but because no woman is willing to accuse him outright, he skirts the edge of respectability. A smoother rascal I have never encountered. When I saw him setting you up to take advantage of . . . well, it was more than I could bear.”

  “Why?” The question was out and hung in the air. Ariadne waited breathlessly.

  He shrugged. “I just thought it was time to end his incursions on the feminine half of creation. I hate his type: smug, oily, oozing through life on charm, though I could never see what ladies like about him.”

  Disappointed in his answer, Ariadne murmured, “Neither can I. I have been trying the whole time to understand women like Olivia’s friend and what they see in Dorsey, but I am at a loss.”

  “You . . . were not attracted at all?”

  “No. He made me ill. In fact, I found him revolting.”

  Cheerily, Ingram pushed his mug over for another refill. “So, what were you going to do about it? You clearly had some trap set. How can I help?”

  Ariadne drained the pot into his cup. “Oh, all hope of that is over now. He will not come near me again.”

  “Why not? He never saw my face, I can guarantee that. I was just some anonymous assailant, as far as he knows.”

  “True. But after his behavior! How can he expect to get back into my good graces after abandoning me like that?”

  “He did run like a frightened schoolgirl, didn’t he?” Ingram chuckled.

  “Worse. I have known some stalwart schoolgirls in my day. He squealed like a trussed pig.”

  Laughing, the viscount slapped his knee, and said, “But, like I said, he does not know it was me. If he thinks there is a chance you thought, oh, that he was running for help, he will be after you again. Do not underestimate the man’s audacity. The temptation of your money will be too great. I assume that was the bait.”

  “Yes. The intent was to be foolish and yet canny, to let him know how much money could be his, but to hold out for a marriage proposal. Then, once he was hooked, he would find out that there was really not much money, and that it was tied up in such a way that I could not touch the principal—that is not true, by the way, but it is the story he would be fed. I would begin to speak of how if we married we would have to live very quietly in a village somewhere and raise sheep. Or something equally as ghastly.”

  “Not bad,” Ingram reluctantly said.

  “Then, when he abandoned me after a very public engagement, we would ruin his reputation.”

  Nodding, he said, “I see.” He got up and paced to the window.

  Ariadne, admiring his muscular grace, lost his next statement. She blushed as he stared at her with a questioning look. “I’m sorry, I was woolgathering. What did you say?”

  “I said, that was not a bad plan to begin with, but it does nothing to get your friend’s letters back.” He paced some more, his dark brows furrowed. Finally he turned and leaned over the table, looking directly into Ariadne’s eyes in a way that made her heart hammer again. “What would you say to a better plan? One that would tie him up for life?”

  “I would welcome it, sir. Speak on.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ingram, standing in an alcove of the Conyngton’s ballroom, watched Ariadne, seated in the chaperones’ area, and thought about their conversation of the previous day. She was not only clever but witty and with an unexpectedly whimsical turn of mind. And her assertion that she believed in him had touched him more deeply than he liked to admit. He had learned to be casual about the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” but they still found their mark, and with every piercing volley had hardened his vulnerable heart. Lately he had begun to feel frozen, finding more pleasure in the hearty and hardy company of the villains that thrived in the sour underbelly of London life than in company that could be called good.

  Ariadne Lambert had thawed a little corner.

  After working out their plan, they had gone on to talk of other things, and she had invited him to lunch. She had, she said, an excellent French cook, a talented gardener, a lazy footman, and a miserable maid. It showed that her priorities were first, her stomach, then her garden, with only a passing interest in social appearances and personal appearance. After lunch they had gone for a long walk on the Embankment from Battersea Bridge to Chelsea Bridge. Olivia Beckwith had never arrived, sending a note of apology with some scrawled reference to a familial emergency involving her youngest child.

  He glanced again at Ariadne, sitting at her ease on the edge of the ballroom floor, her toe tapping to the music as she nodded to the occasional acquaintance. She wore again the hideous gown from the Vauxhall incident, having found, she told him, some measure of comfort that a sartorial mistake could have been put to some use.

  As they had walked the riverbank, she had somehow winkled out of him his familial history, such as it was. How he and his mother had been abandoned by his aristocratic father, even though the man had legally married the woman he never acknowledged as his wife. He spoke openly of his childhood on the streets of London among the lowest of the low, pickpockets, rag and bone men, mud larks. And then the surprise when he found himself, as a young man, accosted by a sol
icitor and told that he was the legal heir, after some search and doubt, of the Viscount Ingram’s estate.

  Somehow during that afternoon, as they stood gazing out at the Thames winking and twinkling in the sun, he had found that he had her hand firmly clasped in his. When he had taken it he did not know, but the lady did not object. Every time he glanced over at her, he found new parts of her to admire, how straight her nose was, how full her generous mouth, how sculpted and perfect her high cheekbones, and how intelligent and beautiful her luminous gray eyes. By the end of the afternoon he would have leveled a facer on any man who dared call her plain.

  Finally they spoke of lighter topics, the theater—both of them were aficionados—and the opera, which neither of them liked very much. But when the topic between them got around to books, and Ariadne had admitted her work, which was writing a history of the Thames, he offered to read the manuscript. She had said, “No, thank you very much.”

  At first he had been perturbed—he wasn’t used to such flat denial—but after a few moments he was cheered considerably by the notion that she was merely shy about her work. Of course, she had denied that, too, when it came up in conversation. Then she had looked at him for a long, hard moment and said, “You are not one of those men, are you, who need an explanation every time you are told ‘no’?”

  Strangely, her direct behavior toward him was freeing. She treated him as an equal, not one to be deferred to. He was used to a strange sort of sneering deference, as Viscount Ingram, and it had always bothered him. He would prefer outright rudeness to forced obsequiousness. With Ariadne Lambert he would only ever get honesty.

  Usually honesty had painful connotations. His last mistress had told him, when given her congé—only after she was safely in possession of a ruby necklace, of course—that he was so painfully ugly she could not help being glad to leave him, for bedding him had been an unpleasant chore. That was honesty of a sort.