Love With an Improper Stranger

by Barbara Devlin

  “That is what I feared, but I know not how to stop it.” Rinsing the suds from his back, he cursed himself. “Where Lenore is concerned, I struggle with a sense of vulnerability that is utterly foreign to me, and I know not how to manage it. If I could, I would lock her in my bedchamber at Pembroke, as I want to share her with no one, and you do not have to tell me that sounds irrational and Draconian, but there it is.”

  “Did we not watch the husbands suffer the same difficulties with their respective ladies, especially once they committed their hearts?” Damian took a final plunge and collected his robe. “Have you told her you love her?”

  “No.” Blake checked his tone, as he followed his closest confidant. “That is, not yet. Although I am not ashamed of it.” Then he added, “So I will—soon. After we wed, maybe, during the honeymoon.” Then he chanced a glance at Damian, who arched a brow. “Oh, bloody hell, I am entirely out of my element.”

  “And I have no experience with your particular affliction.” In the dressing room, Damian retrieved his breeches from a wall peg. “But as your friend—”

  “Brother, you could not be closer to me were we born of the same parents.” Blake hooked his waistband and shrugged into his shirt. “And you will be at my side, just as you always have been, as I stand at the altar with my bride-to-be.”

  “Believe it.” Damian tied his cravat. “Be that as it may, no longer will you compete with me for a light skirt or a lonely widow, and I will miss those days. But you embark on the next phase of your life, and I hope to do so, as well, though with a bit more grace and ease, so I do not begrudge your happiness.”

  “You could not resist taking a jab.” Sitting on a bench, Blake pulled on his Hessians.

  “When have I ever?” Raking his fingers through his hair, Damian inclined his head. “But consider this, you and I have been together from the cradle, and I daresay that will never change, so go home and have dinner with your fiancée, as did the others with their women.”

  “What I would give to take her to my bed.” And that seemingly innocuous comment brought him full circle, as Blake donned his coat. “At this rate, I may be erect until this holiday season.”

  “Well that is an image I could do without.” Damian chucked Blake’s shoulder. “But why do you delay? This is eighteen-fifteen, and we both know only Sabrina and Daphne made it to the church, maidenhead intact. What is the harm?”

  It was with that singular gem of brilliance swirling in his brain that Blake rode to Grosvenor Square. Whistling a new tune, he decided it was past due to claim Lenore’s bride’s prize, as he fully intended to do the honorable by her. So with an improved attitude, he handed off his mount, skipped up the entrance stairs of his home, and charged into the foyer.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” Jennings took Blake’s hat, greatcoat, and gloves.

  “Where is Her Grace?” He paused and listened for the pitter-patter of Lucy’s slippers on the marble floor.

  “In the back parlor, Your Grace.” The butler stood at attention. “Shall I serve dinner at the usual time, or should I postpone the meal, as Her Grace is quite upset.”

  “What is wrong with Mama?” Blake gazed at the landing, whereupon Lenore often met him, but he spied no trace of her.

  Jennings averted his stare and compressed his lips. “Her Grace is disappointed by the Teversham’s sudden departure.”

  The pedestrian statement, unremarkable in its tenor, could have described naught more than the weather. But as the full import of the declaration dawned, a chill penetrated his respectable garb, as Blake halted in his tracks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Samuel Teversham arrived from America just after four, Your Grace.” The unusual display of emotion from Jennings served only to intensify the gravity of the situation. “Mr. Teversham declined our offer of hospitality and insisted on taking Miss Lenore and Miss Lucilla with him.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A multitude of tiny black bugs danced in and out of the mattress and linens of the single bed in the dank room, the dilapidated shutters hung askew and rattled against the window, and the fetid stench from an unclean makeshift chamber pot gagged her. Even in the dire financial straits that shadowed her father’s demise, Lenore secured cleaner rooms. Huddled with her sister on a rickety and worn sofa, Lenore shivered and wrapped an arm about Lucilla’s shoulders.

  “Uncle Samuel, why did we not make the short drive to our home on Coleman Street?” Lenore twined her fingers in Lucy’s and tried to reassure her. “As you did not wish to take accommodations at Elliott House, which I do not quite understand, why did you not permit me to summon our staff and open our residence?”

  “Do not question my actions.” Her relation’s stare cast daggers at her, and she swallowed hard at his harsh rebuke. “Were you not taught better? Have you no manners?”

  “My apologies, Uncle.” Lenore cringed, as a mouse skittered along the baseboard, and she rued the fact that she had not protested louder and insisted they stay with Her Grace, until Blake returned. “But surely we could have taken lodgings in a more reputable establishment? Marylebone is unsuitable for ladies of character, and Papa, God rest him, would have a fit if he knew we were here.”

  Just then, her stomach grumbled, as they departed Grosvenor Square prior to dinner. But the chunk of molded cheese and the partial loaf of bread littered with a colony of healthy weevils, which rested on a shoddy table, did much to tamp her hunger.

  “My dear, Horace is the reason we have journeyed to this place.” Uncle Samuel doffed his coat, and she noted the threadbare material of the dirty garment. “It pains me to inform you of the exigent circumstances, but you must know the truth. Your father left you nothing more than an estimable name and a mountain of debt, and I am ashamed to call him my brother.”

  “What?” In seconds, Lenore recalled the account books she maintained with loving care, as Papa was frugal, and never had he purchased anything on payments. Rather, he settled accounts up front. “Uncle Samuel, there must be some mistake, as that makes no sense. In good faith I balanced the household ledgers, and never did we owe arrears.”

  “Silence.” With a nasty scowl, Uncle Samuel slapped Lenore across the face, and she toppled to the floor. “You will cease your complaints, or I will give you something about which to complain.”

  “Uncle, why did you strike Lenore?” Lucy knelt at Lenore’s side, and her fear was infectious. “Pray, sir. What have we done? Why would you hurt my sister?”

  “It is all right, Lucy.” Cupping her stinging flesh, Lenore studied her heretofore-distant relation and squeezed Lucilla’s fingers. “I am not injured.”

  “But you are bleeding.” A tear-filled gaze signaled Lucy’s distress—and she never cried. “You have no cause, sir.”

  “I have plenty of cause.” For a moment, he paced, and Lenore availed herself of the opportunity to inventory his person.

  His black hair and green eyes did not ring true, as her father boasted brown hair and a pair of clear baby blues. And neither could she reconcile his long, hooked nose, pointed chin, pronounced belly, or his diminished height. In fact, to her knowledge, none in the Teversham lineage sported such attributes, as the males were particularly tall and lanky.

  Then he stopped and squared his shoulders, as he confronted Lenore and Lucy. “The reason we have not traveled to Coleman Street is because it must be sold, along with the contents, to settle the estate. Or would you prefer to spend the remains of your days in debtors’ prison?”

  “What of Mama’s pianoforte?” Dusting off her skirt, Lenore stretched upright, as her mind raced in all directions, attempting to uncover reason in the unreasonable. “It has been in our family for generations, and we cannot just dispose of it like so much refuse.”

  “Be that as it may, it must be auctioned, as it is a luxury you can no longer afford.” Unkempt, he blew his nose into a soiled kerchief, but her impressions, however blurred by age, featured a polished image in both manners and silhouette. “Everythi
ng must go.”

  “Including our dowries?” Lucilla peered at Lenore and said, “That is dreadful, because Lenny is to be wed—”

  “—Someday,” Lenore inserted. “I have always dreamed of having a husband and a family.”

  “There are dowries?” Uncle Samuel perked up in a flash, and his interest unnerved Lenore. “Where is the money? Are the funds deposited in a bank?”

  “No.” Again taking Lucy’s hand, Lenore met her sister’s gaze. She was not sure why she did it, but she composed a lie. “That is, Papa planned to open accounts once the war ended, but he never got the chance.”

  “Oh.” He poured the last bit of liquid of a bottle of some sort of intoxicant into a glass and drained it in a single gulp, and that noteworthy action crystalized her view, as her uncle was no drunkard. On the contrary, he was a pious gentleman, given to charitable causes, which he wrote of often in his letters. “Well that is unfortunate, as such a boon might have spared your precious instrument.”

  For a minute, Lenore reached through time and space, piecing together fragments of memories past, searching for clues, anything to explain the gnawing suspicion that wrecked havoc on her instincts. Slow and steady, she created a mosaic of treasured recollections and formed a response. She wanted to be wrong—she needed to be wrong. Yet she could not escape the notion that all was not as it appeared.

  “I am sorry that I added to your distress, Uncle, as you must be tired after your voyage from America.” Lenore inhaled a calming breath and summoned courage. “How is Aunt Ellen?”

  “She is fine.” He tugged on his collar. “She looks forward to seeing you again.”

  Reality functioned as a bucket of icy water, and it hit her with sufficient force that she would have collapsed if not for the sofa. Her ears pealed with a voiceless but nonetheless potent scream, and a dark sense of foreboding traipsed a merry jig down her spine. If Lenore thought herself frightened before, she now wrestled with abject terror.

  “What of cousin James?” Lenore inquired, exercising caution as at her side Lucy tensed. “And how about the twins? Your last letter mentioned that Eleanor and Eve did not favor the Rhode Island winters.”

  “Your relations are in excellent health.” The fake smile he extended gave her gooseflesh. “And they are quite fond of Rhode Island, as I presume you will be, once we venture to America.”

  “So we are to live with you?” Surreptitiously, she removed her diamond betrothal ring from Blake, as she would conceal it in the hem of her dress, at the first opportunity.

  “Of course.” Then he scrutinized Lucy, and his unmasked leer raised the alarm. “And how old is Miss Lucilla?”

  “I am eight and ten, sir.” Lucy eased closer to Lenore.

  “Yes, she is much older than when you last met.” Lenore managed a brittle smile, as his unveiled inspection bothered her. “I expect you did not recognize her.”

  “Nonsense. I would know my kin anywhere.” He scoffed as he stood, retrieved his coat, and strolled to the door. “But I am going downstairs, and I shall return later. Make yourselves comfortable, and feel free to finish my lunch, as it was an ample portion.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, Uncle.” Lenore blanched at the suggestion and maintained her seat, until he shut the portal, and the key clinked in the lock.

  “Lenore, you know, very well, Uncle Samuel is married to Aunt Alice,” Lucy murmured.

  “Yes, I do.” She trained her ear on the heavy footfalls, which faded in seemingly interminable seconds.

  “And we have no cousin James, Eleanor, or Eve.” Lucy inhaled a shaky breath. “Because our aunt was pregnant only once, and the babe died in the womb, after Aunt Alice caught a fever.”

  “I know that, too.” The cold hand of fear gripped her throat, and Lenore failed to stifle a whimper. “And you have never met Uncle Samuel, because you were born after he purchased a tobacco farm in Virginia.”

  “Where he has resided, ever since.” Biting her fist, Lucy sobbed. “What are we to do?”

  At that moment, Lenore leaped from the sofa, charged across the room, grasped the knob, and gave it a solid yank. To her infinite dismay, she discovered no latch on the inside. “Oh, Lucy, we are trapped.”

  “What about the window?” Grunting, Lucilla fought with the sash. “It is too heavy, Lenore. Help me.”

  It took a few heave-hos, but a final shove born of their combined efforts proved successful, and Lenore flung open the shutters. To their misfortune, they discovered their room featured a rooftop view, as they perched high on the third floor.

  “No.” Lenore filled her lungs with fresh air. “There is nothing but a chimney and a small stoop for the sweep.”

  “We are doomed.” A teardrop coursed Lucy’s cheek.

  “No, as Blake will come for us.” Lenore hugged her sister and kissed her forehead. “But until that happy occasion, we must persevere, as we are in trouble.”

  #

  After enduring twelve hours of pure hell in the wake of his fiancée’s sudden and most unwelcome departure, Blake stood at the long mirror in his temporary accommodations and adjusted his cravat. Yes, he had promised to wait two days before visiting Lenore, as she probably wanted to renew acquaintances with her uncle, and the Brethren husbands insisted such tack would give her the illusion she was being pursued, but Blake could not do it. Instead, he intended to accidentally interrupt her meeting with Mama and Mr. Hope, as they finalized the textile designs for their new, shared apartment.

  A knock at the door snared his attention.

  “Come.” He turned, just as his mother entered. “Ah, how goes it with the decorations?”

  “Blake, I am worried.” With an expression of concern, Mama wrung her fingers. “Lenore never showed for our appointment, and she sent no notice of explanation.”

  “What time was she due to arrive?” He glanced at the mantel clock. “There is often traffic in the lanes, as it is just past noon, society is in residence for the session of Parliament, and the Season commences.”

  “That is why I am alarmed.” She furrowed her brow. “Lenore should have been here at eleven, she has always been prompt, and she is nothing if not conscientious.” Mama pressed a hand to her throat. “My son, I have an awful feeling about this.”

  “I am on my way.” Shrugging into his coat, he strode into the hall and descended the stairs, two at a time. In the foyer, he glanced at Jennings. “Have my curricle brought around.”

  “At once, Your Grace.” The butler bowed.

  From the hall tree, Blake retrieved his many-caped greatcoat, hat, and gloves. As he donned his outerwear, he told himself not to panic, yet he rued his decision to remain at home, last night. Just as fast, he assured himself, in silence, the sisters often became distracted, and Lenore’s absence was nothing but a harmless oversight, for which she would be profoundly remorseful.

  And so it was with that assumption he gained the box seat of his rig, flicked the reins, and drove through Grosvenor Square. At Bond Street, he turned right, navigated the congestion, which slowed him down, and then made a left on Piccadilly, where he gained speed. At Haymarket, he steered south, until he came to The Strand and veered east. After traversing Fleet Street, he rounded St. Paul’s Cathedral and entered Cheapside, proper. As Coleman Street came into view, his gut clenched.

  Sitting before his fiancée’s residence loomed a veritable sea of open wagons, and a small army of men transported various items from the home. In minutes, he parked his equipage and ran down the sidewalk, where a supervisor directed the workers, amid a plethora of personal belongings.

  “What is going on here?” Blake frowned, as he pondered the situation. “Where are the Tevershams?”

  “This estate is being liquidated, at auction, sir.” The bespectacled purveyor narrowed his stare. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “You should check your tone, before I take offense.” He handed the agent a card. “Why were you employed, who hired you, and where are the occupants of the h
ouse?”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” The broker adjusted his coat and cleared his throat. “Charles Ludington, at your service. I was contracted by Lloyd & Childe Solicitors to sell the entire lot and remit the proceeds, excluding my fee, the sum of which is to be used to discharge debts. Beyond that, I have no knowledge.”

  A chill of unease traipsed his spine, and Blake shuddered, as the brisk wind cut through his outerwear. Just then, a group of movers emerged with a pianoforte, and he recalled a particular conversation with Lenore. The instrument was a treasured keepsake that belonged to her mother, and never would his lady part with it. Without doubt, something was terribly wrong.

  “Mr. Ludington, I have reason to suspect you have been unwittingly involved in nefarious enterprises, which I am not at liberty to expound upon, at this moment, but I shall report your cooperation to the authorities.” Blake snatched the pencil and paper from Ludington’s grasp and scribbled a name and a directive. “Take my card, and meet with my barrister. Dispose of nothing, as I want everything maintained, in excellent condition, in storage, for which I shall compensate you handsomely. But I would have you deliver the pianoforte to Elliott House, posthaste.”

  “Your Grace may rely on me, as I am at your disposal.” Ludington dipped his chin. “But what should I tell Lloyd & Childe, as there will be questions?”

  “I will handle them.” Myriad options swirled in his brain, as he contemplated his strategy. Formulating a plan of attack, Blake realized he required the assistance of his brothers, as well as a professional, as he knew not where to begin the search for Lenore and Lucilla. “Just guard the property.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Just as Ludington bowed, an employee dropped a small side table. “You there, be careful, as that is precious cargo.”

  Returning to his curricle, Blake paused and envisioned Lenore, glowing with unmasked joy as they danced on Christmas Day. He revisited the achingly sweet kisses with which she signaled her fledgling desire and the way she all but attacked him, with her unschooled gropes and caresses. How he cherished her attempts to match his sensuous skills, and he sincerely looked forward to tutoring her in the voluptuous arts. To think it might never happen just slayed him.