The Unofficial Suitor

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  What he had not wanted, and what he had never expected, was to fall in love himself.

  The pain of losing Molly had been so great, he had sworn an oath never again to give his heart to anyone—man, woman, or child.

  To be sure, he was fond of Perry, and as for John Tuke, the bond between them was strong, but it could not be called love. No, John was like another part of himself—a better part—his conscience, as it were. Moreover, John was strong enough that Richard was never going to lose any sleep worrying about his friend’s safety and well-being.

  But ever since he had realized that he loved Lady Cassie, he had been tormented by thoughts of what might happen to her. He had looked into her eyes and then into his own heart and had recognized how easy it would be to lose her. Despite her courage, she was so terribly vulnerable. So many things could happen to her—even a chill or a fever might carry her off.

  In his heart, he knew that if she died of an accident or illness, he would surely curse God and thereby damn his own soul to an eternity in hell.

  And if she married someone else? Then the hell for him would be here upon this earth. But that at least, he was confident he could prevent.

  “I love her, Hawke, I absolutely love her. She is the sweetest, dearest thing I have ever seen!”

  Perry spoke so vehemently, his enthusiasm pulled Richard out of his trance.

  “You are in love? Your grandmother will be happy to hear that. Unless, of course, the object of your affection is an opera dancer.”

  “Opera dancer? Hawke, I swear, you have not heard one word I have been saying! I was telling you about a mare I saw today that Charles Neuce was riding.” Chuckling to himself, Perry got up to fetch another bottle of brandy from the table by the window. “I have told you before, a good horse is worth more than any woman. Unfortunately, it appears you have once again seen fit to disregard my advice since you show all the signs of a man who has fallen in love with a two-legged filly. Well, despite your example, I shall use better sense and reserve my heart for the four-legged variety.”

  Perry was correct—at least partially correct. His vow notwithstanding, Richard had to admit to himself that he loved Lady Cassiopeia more than life itself. And he was also forced to acknowledge that he had already made himself vulnerable.

  In the Bible, had Samson lost his strength because Delilah cut his hair? Or had he become a weakling simply by giving his heart to a woman?

  Before Richard could pursue this line of thought, there was a light knock at the door, and Perry opened it to admit John, who was carrying a trussed-up body over his shoulder.

  Dropping his burden onto the chair recently vacated by Perry, John moved only a step away, obviously ready to stop his prisoner if the man made a move to escape.

  “Who have you brought us?” Richard asked.

  The “body” was very much alive, but oddly enough, the man’s eyes held no fear, only intelligence ... and amusement, Richard realized with surprise.

  “I caught this fellow, whoever he is, having a secret tryst with Lady Cassiopeia,” John said, and the tone of his voice was such that most men, tied up or not, would have been cowering away from him in abject terror.

  Studying the stranger’s face carefully, Richard began to suspect that he knew why the prisoner was not struggling to get free of his fetters. Something about the man’s eyes was familiar ... but no, the idea was too preposterous ... and yet ...

  Richard removed a penknife from his pocket and, leaning across the small space that separated the two chairs, he cut through the strip of cloth John had used to gag the man.

  “What the deuce are you doing?” John asked.

  As Richard had anticipated, their visitor did not immediately begin screeching for help, but merely stood up and turned his back so that Richard could also cut the cords that bound his hands.

  Once released, the man seated himself again, crossed his legs as casually as if he were in the habit of being abducted, picked up the glass of brandy Richard had been toying with, and drained it to the dregs.

  With no further ado, he said, “I have been meaning to make your acquaintance, but I had planned to seek a more normal introduction.”

  “Who are you, then?” John growled, obviously not pleased with the man’s sangfroid. “Are you a Bow Street runner or some such?”

  “I am a retired smuggler,” the stranger replied, not even bothering to hide the laughter in his voice. “And may I say, I have never tasted such wretched swill as you are drinking this evening. I can supply you with real brandy, and undoubtedly at a lower price than what you have paid for this.”

  “Blast the brandy, you insolent jackanapes!” John interrupted, obviously incensed by the stranger’s audacity. “Who the devil are you and what business have you in Lord Blackstone’s garden in the wee hours of the morning? And do not try to persuade me you were selling Lady Cassiopeia a keg of brandy, because I am not so easily gulled.”

  Rising to his feet, the stranger doffed an imaginary cap and bowed extravagantly. “Digory Rendel at your service, my kind sir.” He held out his hand, but John refused to take it.

  “So, you are a retired smuggler, and I think you may also be ...” Richard paused until he had the attention of the three other men in the room, then continued, “Lady Cassiopeia’s ... cousin perhaps?”

  “Half-brother,” Rendel corrected. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket, to be sure. And you, my oversized abductor, must be John Tuke, and your young friend by window is undoubtedly Lord Westhrop. And from what my sister has related to me,” he continued, looking straight into Richard’s eyes, “you must be Richard Hawke.”

  “What has she said about me?” Richard could not resist asking, even though he knew the other man might well interpret such open curiosity as a sign of weakness.

  With a smile, Rendel seated himself again. “She said you looked fierce even when you were sleeping. I tell you openly, when I heard her say that, you were as close to dying as you have ever been in your life.”

  The smuggler was smiling when he spoke, but his eyes were completely serious. Looking at him, Richard could well believe that this man would make a deadly enemy.

  “Before this discussion becomes any more dangerous,” Richard said, “I feel compelled to assure you that my intentions with regard to your sister are completely serious. I am resolved to marry her.”

  “And I may even allow you to do just that, provided you can convince me that you are the right husband for her.”

  “Convince you?” Perry moved away from the window to glare down at the smuggler, who did not seem the least bit perturbed by the display of youthful bravado. “What makes you think we’ll leave the decision up to you? There are three of us, after all, and only one of you.”

  Rendel looked up and said mildly, “In a fair fight, I have no doubt but that the three of you could whip me soundly. But you see, I would not hesitate even a moment to make use of unfair, even dishonorable tactics.”

  Responding to the other man’s deliberate baiting, Perry started to bluster, but Richard cut him off.

  “You err in your assessment of the situation, my good sir. Only two of us are handicapped by inconvenient scruples or notions of honor and fairness.”

  A slow smile began to spread across the smuggler’s face. “In that case, I begin to think that perhaps you will make an adequate husband for my sister, assuming you can dispose of the three men chosen by Lord Blackstone as suitable pigeons for the plucking.”

  “Are you with us then, or against us?” John asked impatiently.

  “Why, neither,” Rendel replied, rising to his feet. “If Mr. Hawke here cannot overcome three such petty obstacles without my help, then he is not the man for my sister. Be assured, I shall watch the proceedings with great interest, and if my decision goes against you, why then my sister and I will vanish and you will never see either of us again. I bid you good evening, gentlemen.”

  With those words he moved toward the door, and Richard signaled to
Perry and John that they should not try to prevent the man from leaving.

  Once they were alone again, Richard turned his attention to more practical matters. “Well, John, when you have not been busy abducting people, have you learned anything more of importance about Lord Fauxbridge?”

  “Oh, yes, I managed to speak to Captain Rymer this evening. He is in London still, waiting for some minor repairs to be completed on his ship, and he provided me with some very interesting and useful information about our noble friend. It seems that you and Fauxbridge have something in common, Richard. He also owns a plantation in the West Indies.”

  “Does he indeed,” Richard murmured, already beginning to see the ideal way to dispose of the inconvenient Lord Fauxbridge.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  “Really, Cassie, I am ashamed to call you my daughter. I vow, I have never seen you behave so rudely.” Ellen began scolding the minute Lord Fauxbridge returned them to their domicile.

  “If you wish to accuse someone of being rude, then I suggest you start with Lord Fauxbridge and his mother.” Cassie jerked her bonnet off her head and cast it aside.

  “That is utter nonsense. To my way of thinking, they were both very complimentary, praising your looks as highly as they did.”

  “Complimentary? I beg to differ with you. The two of them sat there discussing me as if I were a piece of furniture they were thinking of buying for their drawing room.” Cassie stalked up the stairs, followed by her step-mother.

  “Be that as it may, nothing they said gave you any excuse to be rude. Why, you contradicted virtually everything Lord Fauxbridge said. I vow, if you had deliberately set out to offend the marquess, you could not have done a better job of it.”

  As a matter of fact, it had been deliberate, although Cassie was not about to confess that to her step-mother. Ten minutes of having the man smile at her in a proprietary manner, as if he had already purchased her, and Cassie had determined to ignore Geoffrey’s threats and do everything in her power to give the marquess a disgust of her.

  Unfortunately, Lord Fauxbridge was so set up in his own esteem, he had acted as if her insults were compliments. Could anyone truly be that obtuse? Or had he merely not listened to a word she was saying? One did not, after all, pay too much attention to what a sofa might say, or heed the complaints of a Chinese vase.

  “Have you considered, Ellen, that if I marry Lord Fauxbridge—” Cassie could not control the shudder that shook her at that horrible thought, “you will either be forced to live with him and his dear mama, or you must return to Cornwall.”

  Pausing outside the door to her room, Ellen smiled so sweetly that for a moment she looked like a young girl of two and twenty, rather than a widow of two and thirty. “Actually, I think dear Arthur is about to pop the question. He has been dropping rather broad hints.” Then her smile faded, and she said more sharply, “And I am not so foolish as to contradict his every word. Men do not like to be crossed, you know. You would do well to consider that.”

  * * * *

  “Well, Mama, what did you think of her?”

  “She is a trifle scrawny, do you not think?” Lady Fauxbridge helped herself to another bonbon. “And she does not have the look of a good breeder. Her mother died in childbirth, and you know the saying: Like mother, like daughter.”

  Rubbing his hands together, Humphrey began pacing back and forth the length of his mother’s sitting room. “She is well enough endowed where it counts—quite well enough.” He chuckled to himself.

  “And I noticed a tendency toward levity on her part. In fact, there were times when her remarks bordered on rudeness.”

  “She is young and still a bit high-spirited, but I am sure I can train her well enough to suit my tastes once we are married.”

  “Well, if you wish for my advice, I strongly recommend you forget about this gel and marry Lady Ermyntrude. She is all compliance, and not only is she the daughter of a duke, but I have heard from reliable sources that her marriage portion is in excess of fifty thousand pounds.”

  She could be the daughter of a royal duke and have a million-pound dowry, Humphrey thought, but it would not make up for the fact that she also had a squint and the figure of a cow. No, he was determined to have Lady Cassiopeia. He had always prided himself on being a connoisseur of beautiful things—a gourmet, as it were. He smiled to himself. Even if it cost him one hundred thousand pounds to pay off Lord Blackstone’s debts, that was a small price to pay for such a delectable morsel. He could hardly wait to gobble her up.

  * * * *

  Observing Perry moving gracefully through the patterns of a country dance, Lady Letitia asked, “How have you persuaded my grandson to attend the Craigmonts’ ball? Have you perhaps overcome your reluctance to apply coercion?”

  Beside her Richard smiled slightly. “It was not precisely coercion. I merely offered him a choice—either he accompanies you to at least five social activities of your choosing each week, or I cease to supply him with the funds he needs to buy up every bit of prime bloodstock he can lay his hands on.”

  “And you do not call that coercion?”

  “Not at all. He is quite free to choose his course of action. It can hardly be laid on my doorstep if his fanatic desire to set up his own stud compels him to accede to my wishes.”

  “Five social activities per week,” Lady Letitia mused. “In that case, I must lay my plans well, think through carefully which events we should attend—or to be more precise, consider carefully which young ladies to throw in his path.” For a moment she was silent, considering what her best strategy should be. Then she said, “Speaking of plans, are you making any progress toward ridding yourself of your rivals?”

  “Actually, I am intending to take the initiative this evening. By enlisting the aid of Lady Blackstone, Lord Fauxbridge has managed to secure Lady Cassiopeia as his partner for the supper dance. He is quite pleased with his success, little knowing that it is the last time he will ever dance with her,” Richard said. Without taking his eyes off Lady Cassiopeia, who at the moment was dancing with Lord Atherston, he added, “If you would care to have an unobstructed view of his downfall, then you have but to allow me to escort you down to supper.”

  “With pleasure,” Lady Letitia agreed with alacrity, her curiosity aroused. Would Richard use finesse to accomplish his ends? Or intimidation? Or brute force? That he was a master of all three, she could not doubt for a moment.

  An hour later she was seated beside a very subdued Lady Cassiopeia at a small table for four. The opening barrage was fired moments after Lord Fauxbridge and Richard returned with four plates of food, but the shots came from a totally unexpected quarter. It would appear that finesse was the weapon Richard had chosen.

  “I understand you own a sugar plantation in the West Indies, Lord Fauxbridge,” Richard said, his voice indicating nothing more than idle curiosity. “Tell me, what is your opinion of the anti-slave-trade law?”

  The look of self-satisfied complacency vanished from the marquess’s face. “That has to be the most accursed, ill-advised bill that Parliament has ever passed,” he blustered. “The day will soon come when England will force out of office the fools who supported such badly conceived legislation.”

  If Richard were trying to kill off Fauxbridge with an apoplectic fit, he might very well succeed, Lady Letitia thought. The marquess was quite red in the face and looked ready to burst with indignation.

  “But surely, my lord, merely cutting off the importation of new slaves will not noticeably affect the larger landowners, such as yourself. Owning hundreds of slaves already, you should have no trouble breeding a sufficient number of new ones to keep yourself well supplied with field hands.”

  Lady Letitia noted with interest that Lady Cassiopeia’s face was now as white as the damask tablecloth, her lips positively bloodless. If Richard’s aim was to give the girl a disgust of Fauxbridge, then he had already achieved his goal.

  Stuffing half a lobster patty into
his mouth, Fauxbridge waved his fork at Richard while he chewed. “It is clear to me, Mr. Hawke,” he said, once he had finally swallowed the mouthful, “that you do not understand in the least the economics involved. It is far more expensive to raise a slave than to buy one fully grown and ready to work. Why, the way things stand now, I have to pay out good money to feed and clothe the little pickaninnies for at least four years before they are big enough to start working in the fields. And I cannot show a significant profit on them until they are at least ten or eleven—”

  At the word profit, Lady Cassiopeia leapt to her feet and began to speak quite loudly—no, Lady Letitia amended, Lady Cassiopeia was actually shouting, in a voice that immediately stilled the entire room. All eyes were upon her and everyone listened in rapt attention when she told Lord Fauxbridge her opinion of men like him who owned slaves, who employed child labor, who lived in luxury bought at the price of other people’s misery, and who thought only of profits.

  Clearly, Lord Fauxbridge could not have been more astounded if his walking stick had suddenly come to life and started beating him about the head and shoulders. But by the time Lady Cassiopeia had finished her condemnation of his character and stalked out of the room, his shock had been replaced by anger.

  Standing up, he attempted to salvage what little dignity he had left by formally excusing himself to Lady Letitia. Unfortunately, the whispering that started in the back of the room quickly grew to a murmur. The marquess stammered on gamely until a woman tittered and a man guffawed, at which time Lord Fauxbridge’s composure broke entirely.

  Red-faced, he hurried from the room, walking faster than Lady Letitia had ever seen him move before.

  His departure was the signal for a mass exodus. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the other guests abandoned their plates of half-eaten food in a mad rush for the door, each one obviously determined to be the first person to spread the news of this delightfully scandalous contretemps.