A Roguish Gentleman

by Mary Brendan

  Freeing his mouth, his thumb slid comfortingly over her slick lips as they immediately sought his again. ‘Go to bed… It’ll all come right in the morning,’ he said huskily, and gently placed her down behind him before he quit the room.

  The last time Luke had seen that look of savage composure, had he but known what it heralded, he would have shackled him to the stairs.

  But since he was a small boy, there was no helping and no hindering Ross.

  He’d been standing on the clifftop when Luke eventually came upon him that morning having searched and shouted for him for some while. His brother had been needed at Melrose to help with a particularly bad foaling that was defeating the stablehands, but might just prove a mere half-hour’s inconvenience for Ross, on this his nineteenth birthday.

  And something in the way he’d been balancing there, so still, so close to the edge, had choked the raucous cries in Luke’s throat. For with Ross it was impossible to tell if the quest for novel stimulation might at some time take him to sanity’s outer edge.

  It was seeing him shoeless that had made him panic. Then he’d noticed how little else he had on: dark breeches, white shirt, his glossy locks knotted by a summery breeze. Ross had flicked his brown countenance clear of snarls, laughing in that exasperating way he had when nothing could be done.

  Luke remembered crying out, as in a nightmare, when all the horror is there in abundance, but no sound quits the throat. His own feet had seemed rooted to turf as he watched his brother launch to soar like a swallow before he swooped gracefully and was falling like a stone.

  Madly, he had raced to the cliff edge, gaped at nothing, sped to the path and slithered, slipped, scrambled to the beach so fast. It seemed like hours, not minutes, later he was racing along it. Ross was there. Dripping wet and with his hands pillowed behind his sleek, black head he lay on smooth rock, grinning up at him. ‘Told you it could be done,’ he’d said.

  Luke had beaten him; in relief and fury he had thrashed him, until Ross felt he’d allowed contrition enough. With one punch he’d freed himself. ‘Don’t tell Mother,’ he’d said and walked away. Then he’d turned, pacing on backwards through salt-stained, sinking shingle. ‘Try it,’ he’d called. ‘Nothing in the world like it. But stand where I did. There’s nowhere else. When the tide’s high, that’s the spot.’ Then he was gone; and the foal was fine, the mare, too.

  And Luke did. He tried it. Loved it. There was nothing like it. The exhilaration…the thrill…the rush of breathtaking atmosphere before a quiet tranquillity, before the icy sting of brine. There was nothing like it: diving over a hundred and fifty feet into the Cornish sea.

  And he had realised one day as he lay, drying off, hands pillowed behind his head in exactly the same way he’d found Ross that first time, that it had been no wild whim that took his youngest brother to the edge of the cliff the day he turned nineteen. It had been, in all probability, the end of many months of observation, of stringent calculation of water depths, of trajectories, of tides.

  Ross was an adventurer by chosen trade; assessing the odds on survival and coming through was his business. And nobody did it better. And now…this misty September dawn…he was looking scientific again.

  ‘Hair-trigger flintlocks are unpredictable bastards,’ Guy Markham muttered.

  Luke nodded, but his black eyes were fixed on the men pacing away from each other. He shot a look about at silent figures: the surgeon, Dickie and David by the hedge, still as statues. Lord Grey and Lord Beecher and various others…Cadmore’s men. His eyes jerked back as they reached the marker and began to turn. He watched Linus Savage with a ferocious fascination as he immediately swung up his arm, and a shot rang out.

  Ross staggered, somehow kept to his feet. The surgeon sprang forward. Cadmore’s seconds looked at each other, shook their heads in disgust. He’d fired before the call. Luke’s lips curled back from his teeth in impotent rage as he saw a crimsoning on the snowy cambric of his brother’s shirt. He heard Guy’s savage string of curses, glanced at Dickie and David as they separated in a seething, aimless perambulation.

  With a jerk of his head, Ross dismissed the fussing surgeon. He turned his attention to Cadmore quaking on the spot. The spent weapon in his hand still smoked, flopped to point at the floor.

  Slowly, carefully Ross transferred the pistol from his useless right hand to his left. He raised it all the way up until it was levelled at the Earl’s head, then pulled the trigger.

  ‘Are you warm enough? Here, take this rug.’

  Elizabeth smiled at Hugh. ‘I’m quite comfortable,’ she said, but draped the proffered travelling rug over her jittery body. Her gloved fingers dashed away a cold nervous sweat on her top lip. She forced herself to settle back into the gig. ‘What time is it, Hugh?’

  ‘Five thirty…’

  Elizabeth nodded, frowning into the chill morning mist. Her fingers crept to the heavy stones in her pocket, needlessly testing for the hundredth time that she had brought the jewel. ‘I’m grateful for your escort, Hugh.’

  ‘You know I’d do anything for you, Elizabeth,’ he harshly responded. He choked a bitter laugh, ‘Even what I shouldn’t. Your grandmother will probably kill me for aiding and abetting…if your fiancé doesn’t…’ Mournful brown eyes slid sideways at her. ‘Why could you not tell me yourself? Why did I have to learn from Sophie that you were soon to be wed? And to such a man as he?’

  ‘He…the Viscount is a good man,’ she championed quietly. ‘And I…I would have told you, Hugh. It’s just…oh, everything has been such a muddle. First I thought I would not marry him…then I would… Now I…now I think I shall…’ A restless hand went to her head, worrying at her cool, creased brow. ‘Please don’t ask me to explain; I hardly understand it myself.’

  How horribly true that statement was! What was she to make of what had occurred last evening? He’d wanted her to elope with him at eight o’clock, for no proper reason. He’d called himself a callow youth for declaring his feelings with such a lack of finesse. How then out of such ineptitude had he drawn her surrender? And her love? With an awful remoteness she had realised she loved him and that if he asked her again to go with him, she would, and devil take bogus clergy, sophistry and anything else.

  She just wanted him. Even knowing other women did too, and might have been similarly won over by seeing him look so uncharacteristically vulnerable, made little difference. Was playing the dilettante just a subtle skill in his seductive repertoire? God knows it worked!

  Was she just an infatuated fool? She was here, now, with Hugh, cold and nervous, because she was endeavouring to save a poor wretch broken by circumstances she had again contemplated embracing herself. Jane Selby’s unwise trust and unrequited love for a trickster had brought her and her son to the brink of disaster. What reason could there be for Ross to want to marry her with such indecent haste? Surely, none other than base selfish motives? She sighed it all away. For the present she must simply endeavour to help Jane. It suddenly came to her that for a decade she had been doing that: concentrating on others’ misfortunes; helping the poor and needy because she couldn’t bear to closely examine her own barren life and situation.

  ‘If I thought Stratton could make you happy, I would bless the union myself,’ Hugh piously pierced her perceptiveness. ‘But what I have heard of his…gross licentiousness gives me no hope to think he will make a worthy or even a discreet spouse. Of course you might overlook his misdemeanours. I hear he has a persuasive way with the fair sex…’ His stricture broke off as he squinted into pastel morning light. Elizabeth heard the vehicle, too.

  Within a moment, a hackney cab drew up close by. Before it was properly stopped, Nathaniel Leach jumped down, leaving the door swinging and, hands in his pockets, swaggered over to them. Elizabeth’s eyes were immediately swerving past to the two pale ovals visible at the aperture. Mother and son were staring back at her.

  Leach doffed his hat. ‘Reverend…m’lady,’ he greeted affably as though no inhuman t
rade were about to take place and he was simply emerging from Sunday service.

  Hugh was barely able to acknowledge him, so huge was his antipathy. After a curt nod, he snapped, ‘Bring Mrs Selby and her son closer.’

  Nathaniel Leach beckoned to the cab’s occupants, while sliding a look at Elizabeth. ‘Believe yer’ve got a little sum-mat fer me, my lady?’

  Elizabeth withdrew the necklace from her pocket, but held it fast in a clenched fist. Leach’s eyes were like limpets on the treasure. Even in the insipid dawn light it sparkled its magnificence. He raised thick fingers and beckoned impatiently as Jane helped her young son alight. A small dog-eared book was dropped on the seat of the gig. ‘Tally book fer yer, as y’arst. All fair ’n square.’

  Elizabeth simply nodded, reluctant to relinquish her heirloom even though mother and child were now by the villain’s side. Their blank, bleak countenances loosened her grip on the necklace far sooner than any of Leach’s threats might have.

  Nothing escaped Leach’s cunning comprehension. Jack was lifted and plonked on the seat next to Hugh. ‘There y’are. Be a good boy fer the lady…’ he cooed while holding out a casual hand.

  With an unsteady breath rasping her throat Elizabeth placed the jewel on his flat palm. His fingers sprang like a trap as soon as gold touched skin. Within a moment it was lost to his pocket. Elizabeth shifted to make room for Jane on the seat, swallowing the bitter bile in her throat. It really was done. She’d lost her mother’s necklace to this loathsome man.

  ‘Be on yer way, then…’ Leach said with a triumphant smirk.

  ‘Jane, too…’ Elizabeth swung about to gaze appealingly at Hugh. ‘He said he would free them both.’

  ‘I said nought but I’d let yer pay ’er doos. Yer’ve got the tally…an’ the nipper. Yer can’t ’ave me wife. ’S’ not right nor legal ta separate a man ’an ’is wife. ’N’t that so, Reverend?’ he taunted, then laughed aloud at the defeat that lowered Hugh Clemence’s strained features towards his clenching fingers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I have vital news, Mrs Sampson.’

  Edwina leapt up from the breakfast table, linen blotting her mouth. She frowned; her butler looked agitated and breathless as though having sped to the dining room. That agitated her. Pettifer could be relied upon to cope imperturbably with any eventuality—good or bad. It was customary for Harry to damp down the fire, she supplied the bellows.

  ‘What is it, man? For God’s sake, tell me, before I expire from the suspense. Remember m’age.’

  Immediately, he launched into, ‘The whole town is abuzz with gossip of a duel…between Viscount Stratton and the Earl of Cadmore. Allegedly, the challenge was issued yesterday by the Viscount and the meeting took place at dawn today on Wimbledon Common. The first account has it that Cadmore fired before the call and injuries were sustained. I have returned immediately to tell you, but will try and glean more details…’

  Edwina sank back down to the table, a plump hand pressed to her heaving bosom. The other reached for her knife. Feverishly she began buttering her toast. ‘You have frightened me witless for that! Of course there’s been a duel!’ she snapped testily.

  ‘You were aware of it?’ Pettifer’s usual baritone trebled in astonishment.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard nothing. But I’ve been hoping Stratton would call the blackguard out. Indeed, I’ve been relying on it that he would. I knew he’d live up to m’expectations.’ She shot Pettifer a wicked smile, it transformed into a gleeful, triumphant chuckle. Happily she crunched on toast.

  Pettifer stared at her, his firm jaw sagging. ‘Injuries were sustained, although no specific news as to whom or the severity. Are you not overset that the Viscount might be mortally wounded by that caitiff’s bullet?’

  Edwina waved an airy hand. ‘I have every confidence in m’new grandson. God knows he’s certain to have kept appointments with cheats before. I’ve heard tell he’s blazed successfully so many times gunsmiths outdo each other supplying him with fancy pistols, gratis. Good for business, I suppose. He’ll never countenance a weasel of Cadmore’s calibre drawing his cork!’ She snorted sheer disbelief. ‘It’s as like the reverse might be true and Cadmore’s soon to push up the daisies!’

  Harry Pettifer sighed, shaking his stately grey head.

  ‘Don’t look so Friday-faced, man! Apart from ridding ourselves of Cadmore, there’s a little added bonus to this morning’s work.’ An arch look slanted at him. ‘I was confident enough of the Viscount seeing Cadmore off to bet on it…with your new mistress. She sniggered in my face when I wagered that before the end of the month Cadmore would be less welcome in town than a dose of the pox. Can you guess what I persuaded her to stake?’

  Harry Pettifer allowed a smile to quirk his lips. ‘I believe I can, madam. Although I had no intention of staying with Mrs Penney longer than the six months I signed for, in any case.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t have summoned the stamina to do so…’ Edwina sourly muttered. Then, loudly, ‘Well, now you’re not to go at all. I’ve saved you from a sordid fate. You’re once more my man…’

  ‘I’ve ever been that, Mrs Sampson,’ Harry said quietly. ‘That’s my fate…’

  Edwina looked at him; her chewing slowed and dawning comprehension flushed her chubby cheeks. ‘Is m’granddaughter still a’bed?’ she spluttered.

  ‘I believe she must be. I’ve not yet seen Lady Elizabeth this morning.’

  Edwina glanced sideways at him. An odd feeling stirred. She shook herself mentally. She’d not thought of that since her beloved husband died. Heavens! She must be as wanton as that bad Penney! Her blush grew hotter. She sought refuge in hearty conversation. ‘It might benefit if this news reached Lizzie’s ears. She’s softening towards the Viscount. Perhaps a little shock might clearly focus her affections and Stratton’s fine qualities. He’s done this specifically to coincide with the announcement in the paper.’ The knife’s hilt thumped on The Times folded by her plate. ‘He’s made public his honourable intentions towards her and restored her position and reputation.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘A little side bet? I’ll wager that before the day’s out we’re lining up visiting cards and invitations on the mantel. Come, a guinea says…mmm…six by noon!’

  Fifteen minutes later, Edwina was going upstairs, mightily pleased. In a pudgy hand was the first proof that Harry’s guinea might soon be hers. She started to hum while again reading that Lady Regan hoped Mrs Sampson and Lady Elizabeth Rowe might this afternoon grace her little salon at Brook Street with their most welcome presence.

  ‘Where are you off to with that?’ she suddenly barked, spying her granddaughter’s maid hurrying along the landing with a tray of food. Josie screeched in surprise and jumped on the spot, slopping milk on to the carpet. Edwina stomped on up the treads to join her. ‘You clumsy chit. What are you doing with it? Is Lady Elizabeth to breakfast a-bed?’

  Josie goggled at her employer and simply nodded her head affirmatively.

  Edwina’s eyes hovered over milk, scrambled eggs, toast, butter and jam. She frowned. ‘Is she ailing?’

  Again Josie’s head quivered confirmation, her eyes a passable imitation of the saucers she was carrying.

  ‘Well, she can’t have much to complain about if she intends tucking all that away. She’s not fancied scrambled eggs for breakfast since she was a youngster.’

  Josie gulped audibly, making Edwina shoot her a look. ‘Here, I’ll take it. I want to speak to m’granddaughter.’ There ensued a see-sawing tussle for possession of the tray which occasioned milk to again puddle the floor. Retaining a contesting grip with one hand, Edwina’s other delivered a stinging smack to one of Josie’s, thereby further depleting the milk jug. ‘What are you doing, you insubordinate hussy?’ Edwina roared. ‘Are you keen to be shown m’door without a character in your pocket to warm you on your way?’

  Josie wobbled her head in denial, her bottom lip trembling. She burst into tears and abruptly let go of the tray.

&nbs
p; Edwina tottered backwards; the crockery tilted, but she managed to find her balance without mishap. ‘Cease that blubbing and make yourself useful,’ she growled. ‘Open Lady Elizabeth’s door for me.’

  ‘What is all the commotion, Grandmama?’ Elizabeth emerged from her chamber and shut the door behind her. She was dressed in a powder-blue embroidered night rail, her pearl-fair hair cascading shimmery tendrils to tip about her tiny waist.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Edwina snarled. ‘Just this saucy minx making me cross.’ She turned her bulk sideways, looked expectantly at Elizabeth.

  ‘Thank you, Grandmama.’ With a vague smile Elizabeth took the tray.

  ‘Oh…I’ll come in and sit with you while you eat, dear. I’ve some very interesting news for you. What’s ailing you, in any case?’ she demanded with a scouring peer at her granddaughter’s wan complexion. ‘You’ve more mauve in the hollows beneath your eyes than in them. Did you sleep badly?’

  ‘Yes, I slept ill,’ Elizabeth immediately conceded. ‘I’ve been feeling queasy. I shall rest a while longer, then come down in an hour or so and you can tell me your news.’ She gave her grandmother a sweet smile. ‘Josie,’ Elizabeth called. A small head movement indicated to her maid to attend to the door.

  Before disappearing inside the chamber, Josie’s triangular, goggle-eyed face peeked back through the aperture. Edwina scowled and reflexively the maid slammed the door shut. Elizabeth grimaced warningly, a finger to her lips, as Josie took a shivery breath about to recommence blubbing for having been twice unintentionally insubordinate.

  On the other side of the door, Edwina slid her head sideways on her chubby shoulders and pressed an ear to the panels. She shrugged, looked at the invitation in her hand and strolled off, smiling, to inspect her wardrobe for fitting attire for an afternoon salon in Brook Street.