A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  She glanced at Josie; her maid turned the nightgown she was holding up before the fire to air it. Satisfied it was cosy enough, Josie approached, holding out the snug garment.

  ‘Not that one, Josie,’ her mistress said with a note of hysterical humour. ‘My blue velvet gown and black satin cloak…the one with the hood. No, not in which to retire.’ A shrill giggle escaped her as Josie gaped in astonishment. ‘I must yet go out; and, I’m sorry, but you must accompany me, I’m afraid.’

  Chapter Seven

  If he deemed it unusual for a lady to arrive, unexpectedly, at nearly ten of the clock, then demand to see his master, the man kept the surprise to himself.

  Elizabeth seated herself on the chair the butler indicated, a gracious dip of her head his only thanks. In turn she indicated that Josie take a seat, too. Josie obediently sank down, but with her goggle-eyed stare clinging to her mistress’s face. Elizabeth was conscious she had stupefied her maid by acting in such a bizarre manner.

  ‘I shall see if Viscount Stratton is available to see you,’ the butler intoned, pessimism barely discernible. Elizabeth again inclined her blonde head in haughty acceptance of his cool courtesy. Perhaps the man’s sang-froid indicated that it was fairly customary for women to turn up at late hours, soliciting an audience with his lordship.

  The fact that the Viscount was at home was both alarming and reassuring. From Marylebone to Mayfair, she’d been alternately fretting or praying that her reckless sortie might be in vain. Once out and upon the road in a hired hackney, her daring had ebbed a little. Logic had flowed in its stead.

  A hedonist such as Trelawney was unlikely to spend his evenings at home alone twiddling his thumbs. If he wasn’t abroad, it was likely he might have a pack of cronies around him, which would only make things so much worse. Well, it was too late to demand to know if his master already had company. She peered after the smartly uniformed butler disappearing into the heart of the quiet house.

  Elizabeth refused to be impressed by the splendour of this residence. She refused to look about at all to admire the soaring marble pillars, or the glorious paintings, or the chandeliers that blinded with diamond-fire as scores of candles flickered amid icy droplets.

  She had been reared amongst such grandeur, she reminded herself. In her papa’s heyday, they had leased just such wonderful residences as this. During her come out, they had rented a Nash townhouse in Caledon Square which was the envy of all who were invited within. Wellington had visited; so had numerous other dukes, earls and titled families. She was unmoved by evidence of a hefty chandler’s bill, she decided, sweeping a jaundiced eye over stately mahogany furniture and a huge gilt-framed mirror. Her attention was arrested by the pretty unicorn central to its intricate carving.

  So, she had been correct in thinking the Viscount wasn’t on his uppers. Which meant her theory, voiced earlier to her grandmother, was sound. Stratton wanted retribution. The fruits of his ill-gotten gains were displayed all around. Porcelain artefacts resting on polished surfaces were probably priceless spoils from confiscated cargoes. Her meandering eye returned to a delicate jade figurine close by. Her suspicions as to its provenance were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. The butler had reappeared; behind him came two footmen and a maid. All were dressed in the same neat uniform of black with dull gold embroidered waistcoat and braid trim. Quite a sober livery, she had to admit, as she recalled denigrating it as vulgar earlier today. The servants appeared industrious, while giving her discreet glances.

  Elizabeth had witnessed few housemaids dusting so late. Either the Viscount was a hard task master or his menials were curious for a glimpse of the bold hussy visiting a bachelor at his home, uninvited, at such a late hour. She frowned at Josie, gesturing at her to straighten in the chair and look less cowed by the whole affair.

  ‘The Viscount will see you now.’

  Elizabeth identified vague surprise lilting the butler’s adenoidal tone as she got to her stylishly shod little feet. Her chin edged up; only the rim of colour accentuating her sharp cheekbones might have betrayed how jittery she actually felt. ‘Good,’ was the sum of her acknowledgement to the favour. Then, ‘Please find my maid a little refreshment while she waits for me.’ She ignored his raised eyebrows and Josie’s quivering. She knew the poor girl simply wanted to be left alone to shrink against the wall.

  I am not afraid, neither am I ashamed…beat through her head in time with her footsteps as she followed the butler over a plush carpet. As he came to a halt, pivoted precisely to open the door, then marshalled her within, she clung to the haunting image of Jane Selby and her little son. What was her own humbling compared to their pitiful predicament?

  The Viscount was ready to receive her. He was standing, with one arm propped against a high mantel, one booted foot resting against an ornate brass fender. On a table close to a fireside chair was a brandy balloon containing a considerable amount. A book had been placed open, face-down, as though he had just reluctantly relinquished it to gain his feet. It was such an unexpectedly homely scene and one that she would never have associated with Ross Trelawney, bounty hunter, that for a moment she felt disorientated…tempted to apologise for disturbing him. The words were swallowed unuttered.

  She realised, with a wrench, that the cosy tableau reminded her of Thorneycroft and her dear papa: a glass of cognac, a weighty tome laid open by the blazing logs. How many quiet evenings had they spent so, happy in each other’s company, in their countryside retreat, before her stepmother’s arrival? But for her papa’s need to remarry and produce a male heir to prevent his detested cousin gaining the entailed estate, it might have continued so… Had she only been born a boy, things might have been so different…for both of them…

  ‘Come in…please,’ Ross invited, breaking into her wistful thoughts. He extended a hand to welcome her further into the oak-panelled small salon.

  Elizabeth felt herself flushing at his unfazed manner and civility. To cover her confusion at what she knew was a shameful intrusion and breach of etiquette, she blurted out, ‘I know I should not have come. I realise it is quite outrageous behaviour. But…but as you and I have no good reputations to keep, I thought…as there is nothing to lose, you would not mind.’

  He smiled a lop-sided smile. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Elizabeth nodded, moistened her lips. ‘It is important, or I would not have come.’ Small, white teeth sank into her lower lip. She was repeating herself unnecessarily. He had already gallantly accepted her explanations. The lady doth protest too much, I think…echoed in all its sarcasm, in her mind.

  ‘Of course it’s important,’ he soothed.

  She looked at him, really looked at him, but in glances that quickly strayed. Yet they lingered long enough on his broad shoulders clothed in fine white cambric, his dark, angular features and dusky hair, to come to a profoundly disturbing conclusion. At first sight, he would appear the perfect man. Any woman ignorant of his dubious reputation and lineage would simply see before her an imposing, handsome gentleman who enjoyed a quiet evening reading amid the trappings of his wealth. It would have been unremarkable if, in the other fireside chair, his refined lady wife worked at her tapestry.

  She had supposed him an ill-educated oaf, yet she had no proof it was so. And this domesticity wasn’t stage-managed for her benefit. He had no warning of her visit. Even if he had, why would he bother seeking the good opinion of a rude, supercilious little bitch? She had simply caught him unawares about his private business. She was seeing the man, not the myth.

  ‘I take it you received my letter earlier?’ he prompted, interrupting her startling insight.

  ‘Yes. ’Tis why I’m here.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you for responding so quickly.’

  She shot him a sharp, violet look, searching his face for sarcasm.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘No, thank you,’ she amended, recalling her manners. ‘I think it best to get directly to business.’ She
flushed again as she saw his smile at her bluntness. ‘That is…I cannot tarry.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He was being too polite. Far too polite. It was as though the ruthless stranger who had menaced her with abuse and a harrowing future had never existed.

  As though exactly reading her thoughts, he volunteered quietly, ‘As you’ve found the courage to come here this evening, my lady, I must find the humility to apologise for my crude behaviour when last we met.’

  ‘I’d rather you did not,’ she rebuffed him immediately, increasingly unsettled by this change in him.

  ‘Why not? Because my apology might demand yours?’

  ‘I’ve no need to apologise!’ she burst out hotly.

  ‘Yes, you have,’ he mildly corrected. ‘I imagine you feel as ashamed of your conduct as I do of mine.’

  ‘A rude, supercilious little bitch ruined by scandal never feels obliged to say sorry,’ she whipped out icily, but her face was flaming beneath his unwanted perception, his unwanted chivalry.

  ‘We’ll leave proprieties till later then,’ he said drily, but with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Proprieties are not required between us at any time. This is not a social call,’ she retorted, flustered by this bewildering need to keep him in the role of uncouth lout. ‘I said a few days ago that I hoped never again to endure your presence. My feelings have not changed.’

  ‘So, why are you here?’ He pushed away from the mantel and took two steps towards her. As she back-paced in time with his advance, he halted and swung his head sideways to frown in defeat. ‘If my company is that odious and you already regret coming, go. Go away now. I’ll not stop you.’

  If only she could do just that: whip about and storm out! But she was a Marquess’s daughter and above being dismissed by a barbarian such as he! Elizabeth’s insides somersaulted with frustration and humiliation. She wouldn’t go…couldn’t go. How could she leave without the necklace when it had taken every ounce of audacity she could summon to come and fetch it?

  Ross watched colour ebbing and flowing beneath her translucent complexion. He could sense her turmoil as she strove to curb her temper and force herself to be pleasant. And as his eyes discreetly roved her alluringly garbed little figure, her pearly hair, he felt the crazy need to stalk her down, corner her…just so he could take her in his arms and comfort her. For the moment, though, he judged keeping his distance and tendering another olive branch might be the best move. ‘If you want to stay, come and sit down. I can’t talk business if you’re going to hide in the shadows.’

  ‘I’m not hiding…I’m not afraid…’

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded softly. ‘You’re not hiding and you’re not afraid of me. That’s good. Come and sit down.’ He pivoted slowly, watching her evade him by keeping to the perimeter of the room on her way to a fireside chair. He returned to the wingchair opposite, mirroring her pose by perching on the edge. Lifting his glass indicatively, he asked, ‘Would you like a drink? Wine? Ratafia?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Good works.’ He smiled. ‘Are you a member of some temperance society?’ He took a long sip while awaiting her reply.

  ‘No. But I’ve sympathy with the cause,’ she said, primly eyeing his glass. ‘I’ve witnessed the damage alcohol wreaks on poor wretches.’

  ‘Where? Where have you seen that?’ he asked interestedly, placing down his brandy and frowning at her.

  ‘Bridewell, Newgate, the back alleys about Wapping where I assist at Sunday School…’ She broke off, grateful for that timely reminder of her reason for being here, alone with him, at this time of the night, flouting all decent codes of conduct.

  Ross leaned forward to rest forearms on knees. ‘You prison visit and slum visit?’

  She was aware of the surprise, and the hint of disapproval in his tone. ‘I haven’t risked fresh opprobium in coming here this evening, my lord, to discuss the charities I support. Might we please get to business? I am keen to return home before I am missed.’

  ‘Edwina doesn’t know you are here?’

  Elizabeth gave a slight shake of her head. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘But I doubt she would raise much objection if she did know…’ She dropped her eyes, unable to meet the humour lurking in the hazel depths of his at that unguarded observation.

  The silence lengthened and she glanced at him from beneath a curtain of lashes, then again more openly. He held her gaze easily that time, moved his glass, gesturing that he was ready and willing to listen. Now the time had come her mind seemed to have frozen. She had lost all her clever phrases, all her rehearsed persuasiveness. All that battered monotonously at her fraught mind was the need to recover her precious necklace. So, unembellished, that’s what tumbled out.

  ‘I want back my necklace.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘May I have it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stared at him suspiciously.

  ‘Now you’d like to know what I want in return.’

  She nodded, a jerky movement that swayed silverish tresses against the graceful column of her alabaster neck.

  He watched her eyes clinging to his. They both knew what he wanted. She’d spurned his sweet talk, so now it was time to get down to brass tacks and proposition her properly. Yet he couldn’t immediately do it. And he wasn’t sure why. God knows he’d had enough practice taking on mistresses over the years. Perhaps it was that poignant look of resignation making him hesitate. Of course, she’d heard it all before, lots of times, from other men. He noticed her pearly teeth sinking deeper into her lower lip to keep it still…but that might be simply to prevent a tirade of disgust hurtling at him. She was conquering her pride, solemnly awaiting the further indignity he was about to deliver. That’s how she would see it; just as she read his attempts at conciliation as calculated sophistry now he was on home territory. He took an abrupt swig of brandy, noting that his prevarication was unnerving rather than reassuring her. Her fingers were in knots in her lap. He sensed a gentle protectiveness washing through him, again making him want to comfort her. Intense irritation swiftly followed. She’d come to him, uninvited, risking, as she’d rightly said, all manner of censure. She was here to barter. She knew exactly what he wanted. So why couldn’t he open negotiations? What the hell else did she expect he might say? Marry me?

  ‘I’ve decided that Edwina’s original offer to settle her dues wasn’t such a poor suggestion…’ He heard the words and supposed they must be his.

  Elizabeth frowned, trying to bring to mind, in her numbed state, what that offer was. Then she remembered. Her violet eyes widened expressively on him. ‘She won’t release my dowry for your sake. I’ve asked her several times before to advance a small amount to me but she refuses. She really is a tight-fist,’ she confided on a sweet, self-conscious smile.

  And that did it. Gentleness was back with a vengeance. She was actually looking at him with something akin to shy camaraderie. For the first time she was letting him see the real woman behind the defensive shell of hauteur. And he knew it was what he’d been waiting for: just a glimpse of the lovable, vivacious creature he’d watched from afar a decade ago. For the first time, too, he felt more kindly disposed to Edwina for getting him embroiled in this mess. ‘I’ll agree to your grandmother’s terms,’ he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat, then added, ‘It’s what she planned all along.’

  ‘She planned getting me wed all along,’ Elizabeth contributed to the conversation with the same trace of amicable confiding in her voice and smile. And then, barely established, it was gone. She finally comprehended his meaning. She moistened her lips, waiting for him to scoff at Edwina’s idiotic presumption he might take a scandal-wrecked woman to wife. Just as he had before, at her home. But he didn’t laugh; he simply looked at her, his golden eyes merging mesmerically with hers. Her gaze fled to her lap; slowly she rose to her feet, one hand behind her steadying against the chair as though frightened her strength might collapse.


  So he wanted money after all, not retribution. He wasn’t quite the noble savage she had thought. And she wasn’t sure whether she hated him more or less. He believed she had come here to brazenly broker a marriage. He had told her, had he not, that he judged her the instigator in this derisory plot to snare him as a husband. He probably thought he was doing her a huge favour by succumbing to the lure of her fortune. Thus, he would not laugh now, during the prelude to his proposal, but he was sure to later when he recounted to his chums how she had come begging him to make an honest woman of her. He would laugh harder on boasting how well he would upkeep his riotous life-style with her dowry and the plump annuity that came with it. She felt her heart thumping achingly slowly, her pride smarting equally painfully. If he imagined she was just some risible toy who would allow herself to be sold, then show gratitude for a soulless sham of a marriage, he was much mistaken.

  ‘If you would allow me two weeks’ grace, my lord,’ was forced out of her stiltedly, ‘I promise to persuade Edwina to be sensible. She is already wavering over the whole stupid affair. I know you have been patient, but if I might again beg your forebearance, I vow she will soon relent.’

  Having looked at her, listened to her, Ross stared at the toes of his boots for a moment before pushing to his feet and immediately walking away. He was seething mad, yet simultaneously felt crushed, drained.

  So much for being a sentimental fool and taking the honourable way. She’d refused to even acknowledge his tentative overture…his pathetic fantasy, as she no doubt still termed a union between a Cornish brigand and a Marquess’s daughter. Having spent all his adult years studiously avoiding the marriage trap, he’d actually begun to propose, and before the words were properly out, it was made very clear they were unwelcome. A double-handed grip tightened on the mantel’s cold marble. ‘Very well. Two weeks only. If no firm decision is reached by then, I’ll dispose of the suite. I’ll get a servant to escort you home,’ he clipped out curtly.