The Highwayman's Lady (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Karen Lingefelt

  Howland set down the decanter. “Jack, all you need to do is court Miss Griffin for the duration of the house party. Just pay her some attention, enough to restore her reputation. At the end of the house party, you can tell her who you really are. She’ll be so outraged to learn you’re the one who scuttled her betrothal that she’s certain to send you packing.”

  “If she doesn’t shoot you into the bargain,” Rollo added.

  “And she’ll be ruined anew,” Jack argued. “At which point Rollo here can take over.”

  “Not I,” Rollo said quickly, backing away from the other two men. “I shan’t allow myself to be leg-shackled to plain, impoverished Miss Griffin, especially when rumor has it she let herself be compromised by a highwayman.”

  Jack slammed down his snifter. “I should break your bloody neck for that. I told you—”

  Rollo blanched and backed away a few more steps, until he stumbled into the globe and set it spinning. “And I do believe you, Jordan, I sincerely do. The problem is what everyone else chooses to believe—to include my mother—and even if, by some remote chance, I were willing to pay court to Miss Griffin, my mother would still vehemently object.”

  Jack ventured a step forward, and Rollo took cover behind the globe, tilting it on its axis. “Yes, but would she break your neck?”

  “I don’t know, but I fear my mother’s wrath more than I fear you, Jordan. And speaking of my mother, will you gentlemen excuse me? She’s in the drawing room and will be wanting a report on my progress in finding a bride. At least once a day I must placate her with some Banbury tale about one of the chits here, but rest assured it won’t be Miss Griffin. I have debts and need an heiress.” He dashed out of the library as if the devil—or even Jack, for that matter—was after him, leaving the door ajar.

  Howland sighed. “I don’t know what else to do, except return to the drawing room and confess the truth to everyone gathered there.”

  Jack picked up his brandy again. “I see two problems with that. In the first place, I don’t think Rollo will admit his part in the caper with his mother nearby, ready to cosh him with her fan. He’s one for always taking credit, but never the blame. And in the second place, I’ll be expected to offer for Miss Griffin on the spot.”

  Howland crossed his arms over his chest. “She may not accept you, knowing what a cad you’ve been, even if your friends put you up to it.”

  Jack turned to the fireplace. “Only I’m not a cad, because I never kissed her or embraced or whatever it is those peageese are nattering about in the drawing room. But I’m not going to blame my friends. I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. I, at least, am mature enough to take responsibility for my acts of folly. Regardless of whether she’d accept or refuse me, the fact remains I have no desire to offer marriage to anyone today. Whoever I marry, I would like to get to know them first.”

  “You had plenty of time to get to know your Cousin Grace,” Howland reminded him.

  “Yes, but I never wanted to marry her,” Jack said sharply. “My uncle has always desired that match, simply to keep her dowry in the family. Since I have little reason to doubt he’s changed his mind about that in recent years, I suppose I should take your advice and at least make some attempt to become better acquainted with Miss Griffin.”

  Howland clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “At the very least your obligation to her will be discharged. Maybe she won’t be so outraged. But I can’t imagine she’d want to marry you after learning the truth. She may be plain, but she’s not without a modicum of pride.”

  “Pride will only help her so far,” Jack said grimly, as he drained his snifter. “Perhaps we should return to the party before you find yourself having to ply your mother with Banbury tales. By the way, I don’t think you ever said what you told Renton in reply to his demand—or request, as you so subtly put it.”

  “What could I tell him?”

  “That maybe if he didn’t feel comfortable being under the same roof with Miss Griffin, then perhaps he should leave the house party.”

  Howland looked appalled by that suggestion. Jack considered it an odd reaction in light of the even more appalling things that had happened since last night. “I couldn’t possibly do that, Jack. He’s now an earl, and I’m only a viscount. Besides, he’s not the one everyone is cutting.”

  Jack shook his head as he set down his snifter and headed for the partially open door. “Not everyone is cutting her.”

  He’d nearly reached the door when it flew open all the way, nearly knocking him over, and he lurched back.

  “Oh dear, not again,” said Miss Griffin. “I’m dreadfully sorry. Are you all right, Captain?”

  He sketched a quick bow. “No harm done, Miss Griffin. Had I been one step closer, you might’ve heard a ferocious bang of wood slamming into my forehead.”

  She studied his forehead, as if searching for telltale splinters. “Hm, I suppose so. Still, I can’t bear to think that every time we meet, you might suffer some mishap on my account.”

  “I assure you that could never be the case,” Jack said stoutly, thinking of their first meeting last night. Because of that, she was now suffering on his account. He wondered if she even knew she was being shunned by almost the entire house party, or if she was only doing her utmost to ignore being ignored by everyone.

  He could hardly ask.

  She went on, “With that in mind, I think it might be best if I leave.”

  Still fuming inwardly over Renton’s demand that she quit the house party, Jack said, “We’ll be sorry if you can’t stay, but if you insist, then where do you plan to go, and how do you intend to get there?”

  To his surprise, she smiled brightly. “Perhaps I will return to my bedchamber and rest. As for how I intend to get there, I suppose I’ll take the staircase.”

  Jack threw a bewildered glance at Howland, who only shrugged.

  “Either way, I don’t think it would be proper for me to be here while you gentlemen are holding a meeting,” she added.

  Finally it dawned on Jack what she’d meant all this time. “Ah, I think I understand now. When you said you meant to leave, you meant to leave only the library.”

  As her steady gaze met his, he stared back into her eyes, of a green so deep her irises were almost lost in the forest dark, fathomless pools that shone back at him. “What did you think I meant, Captain Jordan?”

  Good God. Initially he thought she meant to comply with Lord Renton’s wishes and leave Howland Hall. That certainly might have relieved Jack of the need—if one could call it a need—to pay attention to her for the purpose of restoring her shredded reputation.

  But what would become of her once she left? And he was the one responsible for the shredding of her reputation.

  He forced a smile. “You only wish to find a book to read, is that it?”

  “Yes, but if I’m intruding, I can always amuse myself elsewhere, as I said. I’m sorry to trouble you gentlemen.” She scuttled out the door.

  Howland lunged forward to grab Jack. “Now’s your chance. Go after her.”

  “And do what?”

  “Don’t you know anything about paying addresses to a lady, you fool?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been in the army all these years, fighting the French. We didn’t win by plying them with flowers and poetry. Besides, she wants to be alone.”

  “I don’t think so, Jack. They’re all cutting her, so she’s forced to be alone. That’s where you must step in, otherwise she’ll spend the remainder of the house party either poking in here for a book to read, or walking the grounds by herself, or hiding in her bedchamber. It’s up to you to bring her back into the fold. Now go after her, before you lose sight of her.”

  Jack stormed out of the library without another word.

  And nearly crashed right into Miss Felicity Griffin, who’d obviously lingered to engage in a bit of eavesdropping.

  He quickly gathered his wits. “Miss Griffin, I’m dreadfully sorry. But you
might say it’s now your turn to suffer a mishap on my account.”

  “Then either you’ve suffered two mishaps to my one, Captain Jordan, or I’ve already suffered one that I’m not aware of. Otherwise, why would Lord Howland say it’s up to you to bring me back into the fold?”

  Chapter Five

  Felicity glowered back at Captain Jordan as he stood there open-mouthed, as if he couldn’t believe what she’d just asked him.

  And why should he not, when she knew jolly well what she’d heard on the other side of the partially open door? But when she put that together with his remark about Lydia screaming, and Howland’s quip when the captain requested an introduction that he and Felicity had already met, and the fact that he not only spoke like a gentleman, but was a soldier in danger of losing his livelihood now that the war with Boney was over—well, it all added up to one thing.

  Was it possible Captain Jordan was the highwayman?

  She could scarcely ask. He’d have to be tripped up and trapped into admitting it, if indeed it were true. Setting the trap might be more diverting and productive than accusing him outright when all the evidence was purely circumstantial.

  “Well, Captain Jordan? How long do you intend to stand there looking as if you hope to trap a few flies? I do believe you’d have better luck out at the stables.”

  He didn’t just snap his mouth closed at that—he firmly pressed his lips together, looking very much as if he were fighting to hold something back—perhaps a mouthful of whisky he might have spluttered all over her?

  But then his mouth might not have been hanging open to begin with, lest the whisky dribble over his lips and into the cleft in his very square chin. Instead his lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners.

  If Felicity didn’t know any better, she might conclude he was trying to suppress a laugh—as if he didn’t want her to know he was highly amused by her observation.

  What else didn’t he want her to know?

  “Captain Jordan, has the cat got your tongue?”

  Now he licked his lips, as if to show her no cat was in possession of his tongue. “Miss Griffin,” was all he said.

  “Yes, I know who I am. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  He shifted his eyes around, looking as if he were trying to remember exactly what she’d asked. “To answer your question, the cat does not have my tongue.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No, I mean the question before that.”

  “Oh, you mean how long do I intend to stand here hoping to trap flies? As you can see I’ve already given up on that, since you very astutely pointed out that there aren’t as many flies here as there are out at the stables.”

  “No, the question before that one. Why did Lord Howland say it was up to you to bring me back into the fold?”

  “Why, Miss Griffin, I do believe you were eavesdropping.”

  Felicity’s mouth dropped open. It shouldn’t have, since he was right. In fact, that was the only reason she’d meandered this way—and she’d meandered only because Howland Hall, dating back to the Plantagenets with newer wings added under the Tudors, was such a crumbling, creaking labyrinth of passages and priest holes that meandering—and sometimes ducking to avoid low lintels—was the only way a person could get from one chamber to another. She wondered what else she might have heard if only she’d found the library any sooner.

  “Maybe you should go out to the stables,” Captain Jordan said.

  “Oh!” She briefly clamped her mouth shut before saying, “And if I was eavesdropping? You were talking about me, and when people talk about me, I think I have the right to know what they’re saying.”

  He put his hands behind his back. “I’m not saying anything. Lord Howland is the one who said it. I suggest you confront him.”

  Exasperated, Felicity marched past him into the library to confront their host. “My lord!”

  Lord Howland stood before the fireplace, looking as if he’d been waiting for her to confront him. “Ah, Miss Griffin, you’re back. I suppose you want directions to my stables.”

  “No, my lord. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “I overheard Captain Jordan telling you to go out to the stables—but not before I heard you tell him to go there, as well. Are you two planning an assignation in one of my horse stalls?”

  “Howland, why would you eavesdrop on me and Miss Griffin?” Captain Jordan bellowed as he stepped back into the library.

  Lord Howland raised his voice in reply. “Because this is my house, and I like to know what’s going on in my house—and my stables, for that matter. It sounds to me as if you and Miss Griffin are planning to meet in those stables under the guise of catching flies.”

  So they thought to distract her and make a fool of her, no doubt because of what happened last night. She clenched her fists. “My lord, what did you say to Captain Jordan about me right before I came back here? I thought I heard you tell him that it was up to him to bring me back into the fold.”

  Now it was Lord Howland’s turn to gape, but before she or Captain Jordan could advise him to check his stables for flies, the captain, with an unmistakable air of reluctance, said, “Perhaps we should tell her the truth.”

  Lord Howland’s eyes bulged, and he jerked his head back, as if horrified by this suggestion. “Are you certain you want to tell her the truth, Jordan?”

  “Not especially, as I have no wish to cause embarrassment, but I suppose we should explain.” Hands behind his back, Captain Jordan turned to her. “I accidentally let one of Howland’s prize ewes out of the sheepfold earlier today. The shepherd injured his ankle trying to retrieve her, and she disappeared into the woods, so now Howland is exhorting me to go after her and bring her back into said fold.”

  “And he means for you to do so this very moment, and at this late hour?” Felicity knew she was being gulled. Judging from the look on Howland’s face, she might’ve thought he felt similarly victimized, but he was the one who’d said the incriminating words in the first place.

  “Members of the peerage tend to have some rather outrageous demands,” Captain Jordan said earnestly, his expression as inscrutable as the mask worn by the highwayman last night.

  “So they do,” Felicity agreed, thinking of all the demands made by her titled relations over the years. Her maternal uncle and Lydia’s father, the late Lord Tyndall, once sent a servant out into a blizzard to find a watch he insisted had fallen out of his pocket while he was riding around the estate ahead of the storm. The watch was later found beneath Tyndall’s favorite spot in the house—his liquor cabinet—while the servant was found three days later under some shrubbery, frozen to death.

  Captain Jordan’s faradiddles, therefore, were just plausible enough that Felicity was willing to cede this round to him.

  “But I believe if we leave the ewe alone,” he added, “then she will come home on her own.”

  “With her tail behind her, if not between her legs,” Felicity said with a sigh. “Well, I suppose I deserve to feel embarrassed for assuming you gentlemen were talking about me. I shall leave you to your brandy and books.” She fled the library, knowing it would do no good to linger in the hallway and eavesdrop any further. Assuming her suspicions were correct, they were now on notice.

  But if those suspicions were correct, then what did Lord Howland have to do with what happened last night? According to his mother, he’d heard rumors of a highwayman in the vicinity and had gone to the inn last night to see if the culprit came seeking information on potential victims. Surely Howland could not countenance what Captain Jordan had done, if indeed he’d done it. After all, the highwayman could have harmed Lydia, who was Lord Howland’s intended.

  By the time she found her way back to the party, the guests had migrated from the drawing room to the ballroom, where members of a music ensemble were tuning their instruments. Dancing was about to begin. Felicity stepped over to the wall and proceeded to flower it.

  Renton stood in front of the eno
rmous fireplace on the opposite side of the room, almost directly across from her. His nose was still stuck in the air as if that single hair protruding from his left nostril were attached to a thread hanging down from the hammer-beam ceiling. He swept his gaze over the ballroom as if he surveyed recently conquered territory and found it lacking.

  Lord Howland entered the ballroom, followed by Captain Jordan. Howland promptly found a dance partner in Lydia, while Captain Jordan remained in the doorway, doing much the same thing Renton was doing, only with his chin and the tip of his nose parallel with the floor. Nor did he look as if he found anything lacking in what he surveyed. If anything, he looked amused.

  Felicity wished he would look at her, then just as quickly as she had that shocking thought, she wondered why on earth she would ever wish such a thing. He was just as—well, no—he was almost as infuriating as Lord Renton, who seemed just as disinclined as Captain Jordan to ask anyone to dance.

  And that’s when Felicity realized something even more distressing than her nonsensical wish that Captain Jordan might look at her.

  She was the only young woman not dancing.

  As her eyes flicked around the ballroom in dismay, she confirmed that the only ladies who weren’t dancing were either married or widowed—but even some of the matrons were dancing.

  “Felicity!” Aunt Cordelia rapped her on the shoulder with her folded fan. “Did you have a quarrel with Renton? He’s your fiancé and should be dancing with you, but he’s not. What did you say to him to put him in such high dudgeon?”

  Felicity silently fumed at that. Of course Cordelia would blame her for whatever happened, especially if whatever happened was bad. But now was neither the time nor place to tell her aunt that Renton had jilted her.

  Cordelia spoke in a whisper. “You didn’t tell him about the highwayman, did you?”

  “Why are you whispering about that now when—”

  “Shh!” Cordelia hissed.