Temptress in Training

by Susan Gee Heino

  “Good God, Miss Darshaw, are you trying to kill me?”

  “No! Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  Apparently the damage would not prove fatal, because he pushed himself up to sitting and cocked his head to one side to stare warily at her.

  “I can see why Fitzgelder was so frustrated after having you in his house for a month,” he said. “You’re a regular artist of self-defense.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “To kill me? No, of course not. You merely hate me and were only attempting any of this out of some misbegotten notion that it would in some way assist your father.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s only natural that you would rather bloody my mouth and disable my person than share my bed, Miss Darshaw. I can hardly hold it against you.”

  “Still, I didn’t mean to—”

  He shook his head in disgust and rose, standing over her and readjusting his skewed clothing.

  “Some women are not of a passionate nature,” he said. “I suppose you cannot help it if you are incapable of responding as any normal female would.”

  Oh, so now she was abnormal along with unwashed and uninteresting? Well! It was not as if he bore none of the responsibility for her instinctive reactions.

  “I most certainly am a normal female!” she declared. “If you had not been in such a heated rush to…to…well, heatedly rush into things, perhaps I would not have reacted as I did.”

  “So, you did not intentionally attempt to emasculate me?”

  “No, of course not. You simply, er, tickled me.”

  And now he laughed at her. “Tickling is often thought of as a pleasurable thing, Miss Darshaw. Any normal female would have enjoyed what I was doing.”

  “I did enjoy it! I mean…”

  Oh, bother. He’d tricked her into admitting it, hadn’t he? Her face burned, and she knew the color must be most unbecoming. He laughed again. She wished he’d quit doing that.

  “Yes, I thought you did. So why did you endeavor to bite off my tongue?”

  “If I had meant to do that on purpose I quite assure you I would have succeeded.”

  “Yes, because you are a cold, unfeeling person who has no feminine sensibilities.”

  “I am not! I have all sorts of feminine sensibilities.”

  “And I was hoping to discover a good number of them when you particularly made it rather difficult for me to continue.”

  “If you’ve been so gravely damaged, then why on earth do you keep laughing at me?”

  “Because I’m afraid if I stop laughing at you I’m likely to swoop down on you and finish where we left off.”

  “And you don’t want that.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Darshaw. I want that very much, I’m afraid. You, however, do not. Am I correct?”

  No, he wasn’t. Her body ached to tell him so. Her mind, however, was a different story. It would not let her utter a peep.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said after a lengthy pause that should have given her more than enough time to re-engage his attentions.

  He grabbed up his coat from where he’d tossed it on the floor and proceeded to dust it off. So much for her wonderful fantasies of him enticingly stripping off his clothing. He slid his arms into his coat and was, once again, the elegant nobleman who held her father’s life in his hands. At least, he would be, had he gotten the locket.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, suddenly recognizing he meant to leave her.

  “I’m checking on my carriage. It should have been delivered here by now.”

  “And then you’ll leave?”

  “Yes. I will find your father, Miss Darshaw.”

  She wondered if pouting or tears might have any effect on him. It didn’t seem so.

  “Now, now,” he said, moving to the side of the bed and sitting next to her. “I promised to make arrangements for you and I will. Fear not. You’ll be cared for.”

  Cared for. As if that would help poor Papa. So nothing had changed, even after all that. She’d subjected herself to humiliation and girlish heart palpitations all for nothing. A man like Lindley would certainly get anything he wanted, while a girl like her would lose her father. As usual.

  “What sort of arrangements do you have in mind, my lord?” she asked as he retied his cravat.

  “I told you, that’s up to you to decide,” he answered, rising to go to the door. He let himself into the hallway. “Wait for me here. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Yes, of course he’d be back. He’d left the locket still hanging around her neck, safely under her dress. How pitiful. The man had probably bedded half the women in London and yet she was still so disinteresting to him he couldn’t be bothered to so much as reach into her bodice to get it.

  HELLFIRE. HE’D LET HIMSELF GET SO DISTRACTED BY the temptations of Miss Darshaw’s soft skin and willing lips that he’d completely forgotten about the locket. What the devil was wrong with him? She was just a woman, for heaven’s sake. He’d had lots of women. Granted, not recently, but still…he should have been able to keep focus long enough to remember what he was about, damn it.

  He’d thought she’d been quite pleased with the direction things had been going, that she’d been as distracted by their actions as he’d hoped to make her, but apparently not. She’d come to her senses well before he had, as a matter of fact. Damn it.

  And now she sat up there with the locket. He’d conveniently left her alone with plenty of time to examine it and dispose of whatever might have been contained there. Double damn it.

  It would be useless to go back up to her at this point, so he continued on to the mews to see about the status of his carriage. At least if Miss Darshaw took advantage of his absence to leave Warwick in an attempt to track down any of the names she might find inside that locket, she was in no position to travel any faster than he could, at this point. If by some miracle his phaeton had finally arrived, he would clearly have the upper hand.

  Still, he’d have to keep close watch on her in case she did decide to try and leave him behind. He had a strong suspicion he’d been underestimating her thus far—she’d been able to handle him far better than expected. Perhaps Madame had taught the girl more than he’d been led to believe.

  Or perhaps he was losing his touch.

  Thankfully he was distracted from having to contemplate that horrible thought in any measure of depth. He located the stable hand he’d been instructed to find and was told his carriage had indeed just arrived. His horses were even now being rubbed down and tucked away for the night. He could leave first thing in the morning.

  He didn’t bother to mention to the stable hand that he’d no intention of wasting another night in this place. Rushing off with no clue in which direction to proceed would certainly help no one. Besides, he had the not-entirely-small matter of Miss Darshaw to deal with.

  He’d meant it when he promised to make arrangements for her. Of course, he really had no idea what those arrangements would be, but on the slight chance that the girl was not interested in chasing off on her own after some hint of her father’s whereabouts, he had no intention of simply leaving her here to scrap for herself as best she could.

  She deserved to be cared for. He would find her a position somewhere, or leave her with some access to funds that would see her through. Perhaps he might hire her a way back to London, although that would surely put her back in the brothel and possibly at the mercy of Fitzgelder. No, he would do well to convince her to stay here, where she was safe.

  Except that she was not. That man in the street had attacked her, and Lindley was still convinced it had something to do with the locket. No, he could not be sure she was safe even this far from London.

  Then he would take her with him.

  No, that was ridiculous. She would surely get in his way, and even more surely she’d consciously attempt to thwart his efforts. Taking her with him to hunt for her father would be the height of stupidity. He’
d just have to think of something else to do with her.

  Oh, he could think of a few things he’d like to do with her, all right. But none of them would help secure her in a safe place or help him locate her blasted father. He’d best find some way to redirect his thoughts. Quickly.

  The man lurking in shadow at the far corner of the building did that quite nicely. Lindley’s thoughts were immediately redirected as he made his way across the open space between the mews and the inn. What the devil was that man doing, hiding there, watching him?

  He scanned the area, wondering if there was any way he might leave the man’s sight and then double around, hopefully to catch him unaware. But the yard was open, and by the time he would make it into the inn through a rear door, then back out the front to wrap around, he felt quite certain his shadow-man would be gone.

  He was still mentally examining his options when the man suddenly moved, sliding out from his hiding spot and trotting across the yard toward him. Lindley’s nerves went on high alert until suddenly he recognized the man. Feasel.

  “Don’t spy on people, then come leaping out that way, Feasel,” he warned. “If I’d had a pistol I’d have likely shot at you.”

  “Unless you’ve drastically improved since that last hunting party at Durmond Park, you’d likely have missed, my lord.”

  “You know good and well I could have shot that ruddy fox if I’d have wanted.”

  “Aye, if you weren’t so bloody softhearted toward the little things.”

  “As long as my poultryman keeps them out of my hen-house, I see no reason to randomly exterminate the local fauna.”

  “Softhearted. And worse, your friends all think you’re a lousy shot.”

  “Ah, but so will my enemies. I’d rather have them learn the truth regarding my rumored incompetence the hard way.”

  “Yes, that’s just so for enemies, but I was referring to your friends, my lord.”

  Lindley tried not to visibly frown. Since taking on this role of self-appointed avenger he’d not had a lot of time for friendships. He’d given up the luxury of trust, and damned if that didn’t make friendships a bit obsolete. Besides, he’d been busy playing the friend to Fitzgelder and his reprobate crowd. All his decent friends had been rather eager to avoid him of late.

  “How did you find me so quickly, Feasel?” he asked, happy to change the subject.

  “Oh, I keep my eye on you, sir. Someone’s got to.”

  “Well, I’m glad you do. Things have gotten a bit, er, complicated.”

  “Aren’t they always, sir? So what is it this time, are you concerned about your friend Rastmoor drinking himself into oblivion in there?”

  “You noticed him, did you?”

  “Aye. Did he follow you here, you think?”

  “Ostensibly, he made some kind of promise to Miss Darshaw’s relatives that he’d find her, so I presume he followed her here. I haven’t decided yet whether or not we can trust him.”

  “So you’ve got that chit with you, eh?”

  “I thought it ungentlemanly to leave her on her own, yes.”

  Feasel laughed. “Of course, my lord. Leave her on her own and she might go back to that husband of hers.”

  “I told you about that husband.”

  He laughed again. “You did, and I’m thinking Miss Darshaw might have some competition on her hands. That ‘husband’ seems to have taken a fancy to your Lord Rastmoor, as a matter of fact.”

  “So Rastmoor’s traveling companion is our roguish actress?”

  “Aye, same one, and still wearing trousers, my lord.”

  Well, that did add another element. What was that woman’s role in all of this? Was she in this with Rastmoor, hunting Sophie for the locket? Indeed, so much cloak-and-dagger could not bode well for Miss Darshaw.

  “Hell. You’re going to have to help me with this, Feasel.”

  “Don’t I always, sir?”

  Now Lindley laughed. He slapped his faithful retainer on the back and nodded his head toward the side of the building where shadows were heavy and no windows looked down. He would need to fill him in on a few things, and they had little time to waste. Also, it would be best if he did not make his presence known to Rastmoor, just inside the inn. Or that strange, masculine actress. The less they knew, the better.

  “Yes, my friend, you always do.”

  SOPHIE ADJUSTED HER LITTLE PACK, CAREFULLY MAKING sure everything was neatly stowed. There was no telling when Lindley would return or what he’d expect when he did. She had to get out of here now.

  She carefully tried the door and was pleasantly surprised to find he’d not locked it. It seemed the man didn’t really care whether she stayed or left at this point. Perhaps he didn’t need the locket to find Papa after all. Perhaps he’d run into him here already. She should have thought of that before she let the man walk out the door.

  Papa could very well be here, and Madame, too. It would all be quite ugly if Lindley found him. Before she left, she’d check with the innkeeper. He would know if a man by Papa’s description had arrived or not.

  Tiptoeing into the hall, she nearly ran into a maid who came scurrying up the stairway. The maid was carrying a pan of steaming water and appeared none too happy about it. In the distance Sophie could hear a baby crying.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the maid muttered, dodging her.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” she said and had to step back quickly as the maid struggled to keep the towels slung over her arm from falling to the floor. In her efforts, she sloshed the hot water and very nearly gave Sophie an unexpected bath.

  “Oh, bother!” the maid exclaimed. Her towels hit the floor.

  “Here, let me help you,” Sophie said, propping her pack under her arm and stooping to gather the towels for the girl. “That’s quite a load you’ve got there.”

  The girl held out her arm for Sophie to lay the towels back where they were, but she was far too busy grumbling to give a word or two of thanks.

  “That brat’s going to keep the folks here up all night. My mistress says take up a warm bath and some towels, that ought to soothe the babe. So here I am, wetting myself just so some whining brat gets a bath it probably don’t really want.”

  “I’m told some babies enjoy the warm water,” Sophie said, for lack of anything else. Besides, she knew for a fact it was true. Her friend Annie’s baby adored being washed with a nice, warm cloth. It put the infant to sleep right way. At least, that’s how things had been last she’d heard from her friend.

  “Well, all I’m going to say is where’s this Mrs. Alton’s husband while she’s bouncing ’round the countryside with this baby what won’t stop its wailing?”

  The maid did her best to carry the rest of the water past Sophie and to a door just a ways down the hallway. It did appear the sounds of the crying baby were coming from that direction. Unfortunately, the maid did not have a free hand to knock at the door. Sophie sighed and hurried over to her. Perhaps this warm water—what was left of it—would indeed soothe the poor child. Surely Sophie could spare a few moments to help get it across the threshold.

  She knocked. The wailing continued, but footsteps sounded from inside the room and quickly the door was thrown open. Sophie was about to step away at that point and let the maid complete her task unassisted, but the sight of the young woman who stood just inside the room caught Sophie completely by surprise.

  “Annie?”

  Good heavens, it was her dearest friend! And there, just beyond Annie in the room, sat Madame herself, holding the crying child and looking a bit worse for the wear.

  “Sophie!” Annie cried out, reaching to grab her and pull her into a happy embrace.

  The maid with the bathing implements muttered under her breath and pushed her way past the reunited women to go deposit her items on the nearest table. The annoyed glance she spared for the infant said she might possibly not be very fond of children. Fortunately Annie appeared not to notice.

  “Sophie! We’ve found you!”r />
  “Yes, and I—”

  Madame cut her off, however, and quickly turned her attentions on the maid. “We’re glad you’ve arrived, Sophie. Now that these things have been brought, perhaps we can all have some peace and quiet. Thank you, that will be all.”

  The maid was only too happy to be dismissed. She didn’t bother with a polite curtsy but simply stomped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Surly creature,” Madame said. Sophie assumed she referred to the maid, although she could not be certain. Madame had a weary, put-out expression.

  Annie hurried over to take her babe from the older woman, though it did little to silence the poor child.

  “She’s not been traveling well, I’m afraid,” Annie said, stroking her child and carrying her toward the bowl of warm water. “I’m hoping a gentle bath might help calm her.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, Annie will handle things,” Madame replied. “We’re just very happy to see you, Sophie. It means we can head back to London right away.”

  “Right away? Do you mean tonight?” Sophie said, not missing the worried expression on Annie’s face at this suggestion. “Perhaps it would be best for us to wait until Rosie has had some rest.”

  Clearly Annie agreed, but she said nothing. Instead she simply worked to remove some of her child’s outer clothes and made a soft pallet to lay her on the table beside the water bowl. Her actions were at least distracting to the child, who seemed to be most curious about the contents of the bowl that she awkwardly reached for. My, but the baby had grown in the weeks since Sophie had last seen her. Such a pretty little girl.

  It would be wonderful to return to London with Madame and Annie. Perhaps she could learn to help care for the child and make herself useful at the brothel again. Yes, perhaps Madame would increase her pay if she could do more than simply sew. And perhaps it would help Annie, too. If the child’s father was no longer interested in supporting her, she would need to return to work, if she hadn’t already. Sophie had often heard it was common that men lost interest in their kept women once a child entered the picture.