The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Miss Ritson snorted, tugging her towards the door. “This evening is a waste. You are claiming a headache and going home.”

  Margaret did not budge. “No, I will not.”

  Miss Ritson stopped and slowly turned to look at her, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

  Margaret raised a brow. “Miss Ritson, you are under the impression that you actually have authority in my life. You are an employee of my family, and are meant to protect my reputation and person, not control me or dictate the manner in which I live my life. I have no qualms about leaving early if that is what I wish to do, but I will not disrespect our hostess by doing so abruptly and without explanation, and I will not allow you to tell me that I must do so.”

  If looks could harm a person, Margaret would have died three times over standing there. Miss Ritson was livid, bright splotches of color appearing on her cheeks, and there seemed to be a slight tremor to her frame. “Make your excuses,” Miss Ritson hissed shakily. “Now.”

  “Miss Easton, I believe this dance is mine,” said a low voice nearby.

  Margaret turned to see Lord Blackmoor and felt her stomach clench in apprehension. She knew she had not promised any dance to any man, let alone him, and his expression was not encouraging.

  But he was not looking at her, he was looking at Miss Ritson. His hand was extended to Margaret, but the thunderous expression was all for her chaperone.

  It seemed she had made an indelible impression upon the imposing man after all.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Margaret began, reaching for his hand.

  “Miss Easton must decline, my lord,” Miss Ritson interrupted, taking Margaret’s hand and pulling her away. “She has a fearful headache, and must go home at once. She has a very important outing with her betrothed, Sir Vincent Castleton, in the morning, and must rest for it.”

  Margaret gasped, staring at her chaperone in horror.

  Miss Ritson never looked at her, but kept her gaze on the viscount.

  Lord Blackmoor’s expression somehow darkened and he seemed to be fighting a battle within himself. “Very well, then,” he murmured, causing Margaret’s heart to sink. He turned to her with a slight bow. “If Miss Easton should require anything, I trust she might call upon me for assistance.”

  Margaret nodded glumly, knowing she would never do so.

  “And you will both forgive me if I do not congratulate Miss Easton on her betrothal, should such a ludicrous connection actually exist,” he went on smoothly, making Margaret jerk her head up to stare at him and Miss Ritson gape openly. “Sir Vincent is a disgusting, infectious plague upon society and human life, and I would not shake hands with him under any circumstances. And knowing my own reputation, you can only imagine how much more the villain I consider him to be. Miss Easton deserves a husband of far, far superior caliber than he.”

  He inclined his head to Miss Ritson, then took Margaret’s hand and pressed a polite kiss to her glove, and she might have imagined it, but she thought she saw him wink briefly at her, and then he departed quickly.

  Miss Ritson sputtered, knowing that people around them had heard her too loud declaration of Margaret’s supposed engagement, and then Lord Blackmoor’s response.

  Margaret took the opportunity to thank Tibby for her invitation, and informed her that Miss Ritson had a fearful headache, and Margaret was going to see her home.

  Tibby did not believe her for a second, but promised to call upon her soon.

  Helen and Rosalind were deep in conversation with Mrs. Gerrard as Margaret left, but all three waved at her, looking worried.

  Margaret was worried herself.

  Gossip carried like a tide in London, and an engagement rumor carried like nothing else. She would need a miracle now, no matter how many allies she had gained this evening. Even they could not stave off ruination and consequences of them.

  When they returned to the house, Miss Ritson hauled Margaret upstairs with surprising strength and forced her into her room. “You are remaining in here for the entire day tomorrow,” she informed her. “I will be writing to Sir Vincent, and he is the only person you will be permitted to see.”

  Margaret raised her chin defiantly. “You can’t forbid everyone else.”

  Miss Ritson snorted. “Watch me.”

  “You can’t make me marry him,” Margaret snarled, teeth grinding. “I won’t do it.”

  A light of satisfaction game into her chaperone’s beady eyes. “Yes, I can. And yes, you will.”

  She slammed the door, locked it, and barked some orders at the guard at the door that Margaret couldn’t make out.

  She raced to the window and wrenched it open, looking down the side of the building. Could she get out? Could she escape? She dashed to her bed and pulled off the blankets and coverlet, stripping the bed completely of sheets and all coverings. She tied the ends together and went back to the window.

  There below, directly in her path, was another one of Ritson’s new footmen, staring up and watching her, arms folded across his chest.

  Margaret stared back at him for a long moment, then exhaled heavily and turned back into her room, dropping the makeshift rope onto the ground and then curling up against it, corset and new gown and all.

  What was she going to do now?

  Chapter Twenty

  “Engaged? She’s not engaged, she couldn’t be.”

  “She’s obviously not, but that is what is being said, thanks to that bat of a chaperone.”

  Rafe cursed and rubbed his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have had Kit and Blackmoor assist in this when he couldn’t be involved himself. It was going to kill him to turn all of this over to them, but what else could he do? He could not pretend his dual life did not present risks, and he could not… could not reveal that side of him yet.

  It was why he’d asked them to see to Margaret at Tibby’s party, and why he would dare to rescind his acceptance of her invitation. It was why he had prompted Tibby to get involved in the first place, though she would never know him well enough to know he had manipulated everything through her niece and Kit. It was why they were here now, telling him the things he craved to know, but could not explain why.

  “Marianne says things are awful for Margaret at home, she and Tibby talk about it all the time.”

  Rafe looked up at his friends, sitting in his library far too early for a man who worked himself into a frenzy at all hours and did not sleep well anymore. “I’ve heard, but what can I do about that? I can’t storm the house and pull her out and ride off into the sunset.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Blackmoor said with a shrug. “I think that would be rather poetic of you.”

  Rafe glared at him, which did not have much effect, as Blackmoor was usually the one doling out the glares, and far more successfully. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  “Actually,” Kit said as he sat back and watched Rafe carefully, “I don’t see why not either. Lord Marlowe can do whatever he wants, you’d be a fine match for her, and it would solve all of your problems.”

  Rafe winced and looked away, his traitorous heart pounding harder at the thought.

  “Wait…” Blackmoor said slowly. “Wait. Lord Marlowe isn’t the one who wants her.”

  “Excuse me?” Kit barked, his pitch higher than normal. “But… Oh, Rafe, you didn’t…”

  Rafe sank further into his chair.

  Blackmoor swore and Kit echoed it with a milder version.

  “I met her as the Gent,” he said softly, almost defensively. “No one in their right mind would have thought me a peer, and I couldn’t very well reveal myself.”

  “And when was this?” Kit asked.

  “Ages ago. Months. We’ve been… That is…” He sighed heavily and rubbed at his brow. “Our relationship is unusual. Less verbal.”

  Blackmoor snorted a loud laugh, which drew a scolding glare from Rafe. “That is not what I mean. I mean as the Gent, I move freely about London and I have seen her on a regular basis for months.”


  “Stalking?” Blackmoor suggested, a half smile on his face. That was a testament to his change, as Blackmoor never even managed that prior to his marriage. Gemma had changed him in more ways than one, but that was the most obvious.

  “No!” Rafe insisted. Then he wrinkled up his nose in distaste. “Maybe. But not like that.”

  Kit looked at Blackmoor with a tame expression. “Well, that’s making sense, isn’t it?”

  Blackmoor nodded. “Yes, I follow perfectly.”

  “Shove off.”

  “Gladly, once you actually explain yourself.”

  “Yes, Rafe, do explain.”

  He tried, he really did, but no matter how many times he tried to describe his relationship with Margaret, it always sounded strange and flat. There was no magic in the retelling, not in his following her, or her looking for him, or their ten-second moments. It would make no sense to anyone else, and he didn’t see why it should.

  But as these were his most trusted friends, he had nowhere else to go.

  “Rafe, you’re like a puppy, what is all of this?” Kit finally asked with a laugh. “You’ve never been like this in all the years we’ve known you.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if you might be mad from your years of spying,” Blackmoor added with a sage nod. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Rafe looked at them both, then leveled a serious look at Kit. “How do you explain how you felt the first time Marianne captivated you?”

  Kit inhaled sharply, his amusement fading into surprise. “I… She…”

  Rafe turned to Blackmoor. “How do you explain how Gemma makes you smile and laugh when thunder fled from you before?”

  “Well…” Blackmoor began, looking uncomfortable. “She’s… It’s complicated.”

  “No. It’s not.” Rafe shook his head slowly. “I can’t describe it. I don’t know why things happened the way they did, or why it means so much when we’ve actually not had much time together at all. But I love her. As the Gent, as Lord Marlowe, as Raphael William Edward Thornton, and with everything that all three of them are. She doesn’t know who I really am, and the person she knows me as is in no position to provide the solution to her problem. But I cannot sit idly by and let her be treated like this. And I will be damned to hell five times over before I will let Sir Vincent Castleton have her.”

  His friends sat there for a long moment, staring at him in wonder. Then Blackmoor turned to Kit with an innocent expression. “I think he loves Miss Easton, Gerrard. Just a thought.”

  “You might be right,” Kit murmured, still watching Rafe.

  Rafe slumped back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. “I am going mad with it, so please, tell me everything.”

  “First of all, Gent,” Blackmoor said with a hint of mockery on his street name, “I think you might need to tell her that you love her.”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “She told me to get out.”

  His friends made sympathetic noises, and he glared at them both. “I know! I climbed the wall of her house and into her bed chamber just to see her, and she rebuffs my declaration?”

  Kit clicked his tongue. “Such disregard for your efforts.”

  Sensing he was being mocked, Rafe sniffed dismissively. “After all I’ve done for her, that wasn’t proof enough that I wanted to be with her.”

  “And what exactly have you done?” Blackmoor asked, lacing his fingers around one of his knees and sitting back.

  With a resigned sigh, Rafe told them the rest. He left out the parts that related to national security, naturally, but everything else he told, including the things Callie had told him about Margaret’s visit with Sir Vincent. He told them about the Bounty and the rumors, everything Margaret would have heard there, and the change it had wrought in her.

  They listened with interest, their faces darkening at the appropriate times, and then faint amusement settling in by the end. The more Rafe spoke, the more the tightening in his chest began to unravel, and the more he missed Margaret and all she meant to him. And the more confused he became about why he was sitting around and not taking her for himself.

  “Well, that was enlightening,” Kit said when the story was done, scratching at his jaw.

  “Certainly was.” Blackmoor nodded slowly, his eyes on Rafe the entire time.

  Rafe rolled his eyes and folded his arms about his chest. “And?” he prodded without patience.

  Blackmoor shrugged, and Kit smiled. “We’re still of the opinion that you should storm the house and take her for yourself.”

  “What?” Rafe barked. “I already told you I can’t.” But it was sounding more like a good idea the more they repeated it.

  “Indeed.” Blackmoor’s mouth twitched in an almost smile. “So, in light of that, the protection of several powerful members of Society might be your best bet.”

  “Which is why I had you all take her under your wings and introduce her to everyone you could at Tibby’s. Thank you for that, by the way.” He looked between the two with a smile.

  Blackmoor waved it off. “That was easy. I hadn’t known much of Miss Easton before this, but I was impressed with her. She showed a lot of spirit, and I think that, given the chance, she will break off her restraints.”

  Rafe smiled before he was aware of it, a surge of pride swelling within him. “She is not quite the demure and proper miss she portrays.”

  Kit chuckled a little. “That explains why Tibby has taken such an interest in her.”

  “And Gemma,” Blackmoor added.

  “And it’s why I love her,” Rafe admitted. “One of the reasons, anyway.”

  There was so much to love about Margaret, so many pleasant surprises, even for him, who thought he knew her so well. She would never become dull, life with her would never be tame, and he knew that he would find more and more to love about her as time went on.

  He needed her, and that was all there was to it.

  “So what can we do?” Kit asked him. “You obviously love her, so why aren’t you with her?”

  “Are they preventing you from being with her?” Blackmoor’s question was sharp and accusatory, and Rafe was torn between defending his colleagues and praising his friend’s loyalty.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to make the distinction.

  He smiled wryly. “Actually, they are working on taking care of certain situations so that I can be with her while still maintaining my position.”

  Both men looked surprised by that, and exchanged a look. “You are going to have to reveal your real identity, you know,” Kit told him carefully. “And what you are.”

  Rafe shrugged. “I am prepared to do so, as soon as it is safe.”

  Blackmoor nodded, but frowned. “And until then?”

  The question was expected, but it didn’t lessen the pain of it. “Until then,” Rafe told them on a long exhale, “I am to continue as I am, focus on my task, and not cause any trouble.”

  “So you need me to cause trouble,” Blackmoor said bluntly.

  Rafe barked a laugh, tossing his head back. “Not at all. I just need you two to continue to mind her, if she manages to get out in Society. I have one of my scouts posted at her house and following her everywhere, and Callie is still in Sir Vincent’s employ, but…” He shrugged uneasily. “I need to know she is protected at all times, as I am not in a position to do so.”

  Kit had been watching him closely, and now leaned forward, his eyes earnest. “Rafe, what else are you doing? You have dark shadows under your eyes and lines on your face, and you’re not as sharp as you normally are. I know you well enough to know this is more than a poor night’s sleep. What else?”

  He had not expected any such accusations, nor had he thought that he showed so very much of his exhaustion. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them everything, how he had spent his nights outside of her home, near her window, just to ensure that nothing happened. If his information was correct, Sir Vincent would stop at nothing to
have Margaret, and her chaperone was somehow in favor of it, if not orchestrating the whole thing. He’d had visions of Sir Vincent coming to Margaret’s bedchamber, and the horror of such scenes terrified him to his core.

  He might not be able to be by Margaret’s side, given her situation and her last words to him, but it was not about to keep him from ensuring her safety and well-being as much as he was able.

  He was treading a fine line as it was, and if anything else happened, he would probably do something irrational.

  A knock on his study door prevented him from having to answer Kit. Davis entered and raised a fluffy brow in greeting. “Sir, a message for you.”

  “From whom?” he asked, signaling for the butler to come over.

  “The lad did not say, sir,” Davis said, delivering the note, bowing, and departing the room.

  Rafe’s hands stilled on the note, and he glanced up at his friends to see them watching warily. He broke the seal and scanned the lines in Rogue’s scratchy scrawl quickly.

  Your Roman uncle is in the office. Says the renegade is recruiting. Damsel in distress. Details upon arrival.

  He shot to his feet, his mind scrambling. He had no living relatives, as Rogue knew, let alone ones from Rome, so he could only deduce that meant a Rom was in the office, and there was only one Rom that would seek him out through official straits. Kem had come into London, which had never happened in the years he had known him, and if that was true, the renegade would be Pov, and if Pov, working for Sir Vincent, was attempting to recruit…

  And the only damsel that could be in distress would be Margaret.

  Rafe was out of the study before his friends said a single word, and he gave them no apology or explanation. They were used to his comings and goings, and if they needed to know, he would have told them.

  He slipped out of his house through the kitchens, and took the crooked back streets to the office at a fast clip, his mind spinning. Was Margaret in danger at this moment, or was it in the future? Was Pov inciting a riot with his brothers and other discontented Roms? Had Sir Vincent finally shown his hand?

  It was a maddeningly complex situation, and it ought to have been very simple. Curse his life and its various aspects that were now all getting in the way of each other.