by Eva Devon
But this somehow felt different.
She wasn’t judging him. It felt more like she was one of those new and fashionable archaeologists, like his twin’s new wife, who made studies of things.
Well, he wasn’t a thing. And he wasn’t going to be examined. Especially not by a young woman whose worldly experience was almost certainly limited to novels (not that he didn’t adore novels) and the fields about the estate.
He cleared his throat. “Your elucidation on my character is unnecessary.”
She waved his comment away. “In any case, you were going to tell me about Uncle Reginald. Did he lose a considerable sum?”
“You are familiar with his unfortunate gambling?” He couldn’t hide the shock from his voice.
“Oh dear.” She glanced askance.
For one moment, he could have sworn she was eyeing the brandy but proper young women didn’t drink brandy in the afternoon.
She folded her beautiful hands. “What sum has he lost?”
“It all depends,” he replied, not entirely sure how to answer her question. Was a house a sum?
Her hazel eyes narrowed. “You are being vague, my lord, and it isn’t appreciated.”
“I apologize for my vagueness, but you see, I do not know the value of the house and its surroundings.”
“The house,” she repeated, her face blank.
Here it was. The point of no return. He had a strong suspicion that overt gentleness wouldn’t be the correct course with Lady Patience and so he said plainly, “I hate to tell it to you, but your uncle deeded Barring House over to me just a few nights ago. Clearly, he has not told you?”
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the uncle had run for the continent rather than return and face this gorgon.
Instead of horror or fainting fits, she replied coolly, “Such a thing would be impossible, my lord.”
“Indeed?” Charles knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help teasing, “Afraid is he? A man is often afraid when he’s done something so—”
“Uncle Reginald is afraid of nothing now,” she cut in.
A sinking sense of dread rested in Charles innards.
“Now?” he prompted.
“He’s dead, Lord Charles.”
Chapter 2
Lady Patience, daughter of Baron Montbank, eyed the man who’d come to toss her out of her home and found herself wondering how far she could push him.
He was beautiful. Beyond beautiful really. Obsidian eyes peered out from black-winged brows. A chiseled jaw framed an aristocratic nose and lips which promised sin. Black hair shone so black it had the barest blue hint to it. And he was dressed as sharply as his cheekbones in simple black and buff. Nothing of the dandy about him.
Or at least, this is how her pseudonym Mr. P. Auden, author, would have described him. Patience was quite good at describing things in the style so popular today as evidenced by her numerous popular works. Works which had kept Barring House afloat whilst her uncle had gambled his yearly funds away.
P. Auden would have found Lord Charles to be the dearest inspiration for a hero that would make every lady within a country mile swoon.
Lady Patience, on the other hand, knew him for what he was, a bounder and a cad.
It was unfortunate that she liked cads. Oh, not to have as true friends, but as subjects of study. They did make the best fodder for her novels. Usually, she had to travel up to London to find such interesting material for her works. Chance had brought a rake, a clearly excellent rake, to her.
Yes. . . Perhaps, she shouldn’t push him too hard so that he wouldn’t promptly evict her. Then she could draw a proper sketch of his character and use it for her newest work.
The news of Uncle Reginald’s tragic death had not caused her too much pain. Though she knew it did not reflect well upon her, she’d found the news to be that of wearied relief.
Uncle Reginald had been a sorrowful and broken figure. One who had succumbed to the French disease. She knew the symptoms from her research and every time he gambled, she’d seen him break down further.
Death, in many ways, had been a blessed relief from the drawn out, brutal end that had awaited him and the continued heartbreak of the gambling house.
Still, he’d taken her in when no one else would. As a girl, she’d been nothing more than the impoverished orphan of a gentleman.
Once, Uncle Reginald had been a kind and good man.
Despite the fact that Uncle Reginal had been doomed to a sad end, she’d not let Lord Charles off too easily. Such a dissipated man needed to understand the effects of his actions. . . Then again, Lord Charles was not why Uncle Reginald gambled. That she knew.
Even so, Lord Charles had grown remarkably serious as if her news had caused her more pain than his had caused her.
Then again, unlike Lord Charles, she wasn’t surprised by the news that Barring House was lost to her. Uncle Reginald had been gambling away bits and pieces of the household goods for years.
Such actions had helped her to understand why an entail could be a very good idea. At least then, one couldn’t throw away all the beautiful art in one’s house in a drunken and regrettable episode.
“Dead. I understand that,” Lord Charles at last repeated.
There it was again.
He did love to repeat what she said. Was she so very odd to him? Yes, she realized. She was. No doubt, a man like him was used to bits of lace. Ladies with no thought or ambition beyond pretty jewels and the best seat at dinner.
He seemed to take in her attire with new interest. Lines formed about his mouth as he asked, “How did he die?”
This was complicated and the only thing she could do was answer simply. “The report is drowning.”
He didn’t ask, but the unpleasant question hanged in the air. So, she decided to answer it.
“An accident,” she said softly. Then she cleared her throat forcing herself to face the reality of her uncle’s death. “Or so they’ve decided. He was coming home from London, fell off his horse, and drowned in the river on the edge of the estate.”
Lord Charles was silent for a long pause before stating, “I see.”
And she felt certain he did, indeed, see.
It was possible that her uncle had met with an unfortunate accident. She didn’t add that since he had stripped off his boots and his coat that it was unlikely he had fallen into the water.
Truthfully, she couldn’t bear thinking about it.
Uncle Reginald might have succumbed to his worst demons, but she could never have wished him ill.
Her own fascination with the demimonde and its often dark world arose from her own uncle’s descent into it. She was very aware of that. That fascination had also saved them from financial ruin. P. Auden was the most successful author of the day. Something for which she was grateful.
Reginald had known her secret. One of only four people that did. To her surprise, he’d been proud of her.
Tears stung her eyes. The old man had been so much trouble. And yet. . .
“Lady Patience, please accept my condolences.”
She drew herself up and forced her voice to be strong. “Better not to gamble with such broken men, my lord. That would be a better apology.”
“I had no idea he had dependents.”
“Would such knowledge justify your actions?”
Lord Charles didn’t look overly repentant but nor did he look disdainful.
“I did not force him to the tables,” he said.
She sighed. “No. You didn’t.”
A strange expression crossed his face. “I cannot be the conscience of every man who crosses my path.”
“Of course. After all, how can you be since you do not have one of your own?”
It was exactly what Lady Patience would say. The lady she had carefully constructed over the years. The lady who hid her true personality behind the perfect veneer of icy and rigid respectability.
Lady Patience was the opposite of her true self. The self
she often longed to be all the time and not just when she wrote and traveled to London to do her research.
She waited for him to argue with her statement or make some cutting reply. He didn’t and she found herself suddenly wishing to backtrack. Perhaps, he did have some conscience. . . But she doubted it.
It was there in his beautiful, hard face.
Lord Charles had abandoned goodness some time ago.
The butler returned at that moment with tea.
After waiting for him to place the tray on the table near her favorite settee and wishing again that she could have a brandy as she truly wished rather than tea, she took up her duties and poured.
“How do you take it?” she asked as though they weren’t about to discuss her entire future.
Because while P. Auden could do whatever he wished and live however he wished, as could her secret self that ventured out into London’s scandalous society by night, Lady Patience had to do what the moral society dictated. And that society would expect her to accept the loss of the house she’d grown up in and find new lodgings.
“I take it black,” he replied tersely.
He suddenly stood.
At present, he was so beautifully tense, his body humming with some unknown emotion. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his intense figure.
He stalked to the window.
“So, what shall we do, my lord?” she asked calmly.
Staring out the panes and down to the gardens, he replied over his shoulder, “In all honesty, I have no idea.”
“It sounds as if you are unaccustomed to our present situation.”
“I am,” he said darkly. “You are an unexpected accoutrement to this asset.”
“The asset being the house?” she queried, straining the tea.
“Yes.”
“You have many assets?” she asked lightly, staring his broad back.
“Yes.”
It was a bit of a surprise. Usually men like him had few assets at all. The only thing that separated Lord Charles from her uncle was age, time, and luck.
“If you must know,” he said, “I planned on selling the house but that seems in bad taste now.”
She felt a twinge of astonishment. “Why should you alter your plans? I can leave within a fortnight if necessary.”
Slowly, he turned to face her and his rakish demeanor was gone, replaced by something stronger, something serious, something breathtaking.
“You must think me very cold,” he observed.
She didn’t answer.
Lord Charles cocked his head to the side. “Do you take delight in assuming the worst about your fellow man?”
“I see with open eyes my lord,” she replied honestly. “I do not judge you for your nature.”
He folded his strong arms over his chest. “My nature again, is it?”
“Do you argue that your nature is different than I imagine?”
“No. It would be the greatest hypocrisy to do so.”
She nodded.
“Still, I know what it is like to lose a loved one. . . In unfortunate circumstances.”
Was he truly inferring what she thought? That someone he loved had committed self-slaughter? Such a thing was scandalous and ruinous to admit. It was impossible to not wonder who it had been. Whoever it was had no doubt created that haunted look which now darkened his previously devilish face.
“I do not wish you to go,” he said gruffly. “You may stay as long as you wish.”
“And if that’s until I am old and wrinkled?” she challenged lightly.
“Then so be it.”
She placed the teapot down. “You don’t need the blunt, as they say?”
He leaned forward and shook his head. “That is an incredibly impertinent question.”
“So it is. The shock, you know.”
“Lady Patience, I don’t think even the king dancing a jig in Piccadilly could shock you.”
“Perhaps not.” She held out a delicately painted periwinkle blue teacup towards him.
He took it and, for the briefest moment, their fingertips touched.
She was no stranger to the touch of a man’s hand, though Lord Charles couldn’t know that, but this touch? This touch sent a jolt of delicious pleasure up her arm.
Patience bit down on the inside of her cheek to hide her inappropriate reaction.
It was such a simple thing. Their fingers caressing but goodness. . .
She swallowed and pulled her hand back as soon as he had a good grip on the saucer.
As if he, too, had been stunned by the brief touch, he held the cup in midair.
After a slightly too-long pause, he cleared his throat. “I do not need blunt, to answer your question. And given the misfortune that has befallen you, it pleases me to ensure your circumstances.”
“And yet, I cannot accept your help,” she said quickly. “Such a thing would be beyond the pale of decorum. Perhaps I could purchase the house from you?”
He sputtered on his tea.
She stood, ready to clap him on the back if necessary but he held up a hand.
“You see,” she began as she sat again, “I have quite a fortune of my own.”
Once again, he raked his dark gaze up and down her body.
“You are a woman of many secrets, I think.”
It was tempting to reply that he had no idea.
“I propose that you sell me the house,” she said as she raised her cup to her lips.
Placing his cup back in its saucer he replied, “I propose that I stay and that we determine the best course of action after I’ve learned more about you and the house.”
She ground her teeth together. Oh no. She couldn’t have that. She was going up to London tomorrow for a brief research outing and. . . The arrogance of him to suppose he would know what was best for her.
Then again, he was a man.
“Of course you must stay,” she replied with forced good will. “It is your house, after all.”
“I am sorry to cause you such discomfort, but now that I know that my acquisition is far from straight forward, I feel I must take some interest in you.”
She forced herself to smile. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
He stared.
That stare drove straight through her. It felt as if he were searching the very depths of her soul to discover the source of her oddity.
So, she gave him a small salute with her cup and explained, “I so hate attention.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t believe her. Which was impossible. Everything about the Lady Patience she’d painstakingly created, from her scraped back hair, to tense mannerisms, suggested she loathed company.
It was not acceptable that he was seeing slight cracks in her mask. It had taken her years to establish her mask and fool those about her so she might live a very private and very secret life when away from Barring House.
There was only one thing for it.
She smiled coolly at him over the rim of her teacup as she prepared to take another sip.
She was going to have to get rid of Lord Charles. . . Without delay.
Chapter 3
Despite her reserved manner and sense of duty as a hostess, Lady Patience was trouble.
And she was absolutely hiding something.
The four-poster bed, if it could still be called a bed, was full of lumps. The bedding itself was so full of dust he’d have sneezed his head off if he wasn’t made of such a strong constitution. The woman clearly thought he was a delicate flower of a man who would be dissuaded by creature discomforts.
How could she know the years he’d spent abroad in shocking conditions as he’d assisted nobles to escape the reign of terror?
No one knew. Not even his brother, the duke.
His own talent as an actor made it clear to him that Lady Patience was a masker of extreme skill, but what was she hiding?
His sense of curiosity was roused and he wasn’t going anywhere until he discovered her secret.
/>
It was perverse. He knew it.
She was a lady grieving the death of a disappointing relative.
Of that, he was familiar.
When she’d related her uncle’s drowning, he’d felt himself slipping back in time to the smell of gunpowder and his father.
No.
He couldn’t think of that. If he did, he’d have to drink himself into a stupor. And such a thing would adversely affect his mission to discover what the devil was really going on in the house he’d won in what had seemed to be a simple hand of cards.
He lifted the single candle he’d been given and used it to make better view of his dark room. . . Though cell might have been a more apt description.
He was familiar with this sort of room though she likely was unaware of that.
This was the sort of room one put an unwelcome guest in the hope they would hie hence with speed.
Well, he wasn’t hieing anywhere. London had grown depressing. All his friends were marrying. It was as if a disease had slipped through his company and men were falling left and right.
Yes. A spell away from them all in the presence of such a prickly woman would ensure his safety from the connubial cage.
The walls were molding.
Molding.
Devil take it but she clearly wished him gone.
He took the single, flickering candle over to the small mahogany desk before the window. There was a crack in the glass pane which let in the cold night air.
The room was damp.
Which was a shame because there was a stack of rather beautiful books on the desk and damp was notoriously bad for books.
He’d have to speak to her in the morning of such carelessness. Let the walls rot. Books had to be preserved.
He picked one up and eyed the title.
The Wicked Adventures and Journey of Calliope Baker.
It was a salacious and typical title of the day. . . It was a title he knew. He’d bought it but had yet to read it. It was the most popular book in London at present written by one mysterious P. Auden.
