Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  Francis was such a thoughtful man. He did not want Lorrie to ever suffer from poverty. But what he did not understand was she did not care about money or dresses or jewels. She wanted to be with the man she loved.

  She’d cried for a week, and to cheer her up, her eldest brother had given her Wellington as a gift. Lorrie suspected the puppy was meant to distract her from making more plans to elope. Welly was certainly a distraction, but the puppy napped at her feet now, which had given Lorrie plenty of time to reread all of Francis’s letters.

  She pulled another sheet of foolscap from her drawer, dipped the pen in ink, and began again.

  My Dearest Francis—

  That was a good start.

  Words cannot express my longing for you to see you again. I cannot cease picturing your hands on me writing the beautiful words on the papers I hold so close to my breast my heart. I long to run away with you see you, hear your voice, and so on and so on—

  Lorrie tossed the quill down, then started when Welly jumped to his feet, ran to the window, and began to bark. The little dog bounced up and down, his tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. Lorrie parted the curtains and peered out. This small parlor on the main floor faced the street, and as she peered down, she spotted a man exiting a hackney.

  Not just any man. The Nordic giant from the day before.

  No!

  With Welly right on her heels, Lorrie lifted her skirts and ran from the room. She’d long ago perfected the art of running silently, and she made no sound as she scampered down the hall and all but flew down the staircase. Thankfully neither Bellweather nor any of the footmen had heard the carriage arrive, and Lorrie pulled open the door and jumped outside before the Viking could knock.

  He paused at the bottom of the steps when he saw her, and she shut the door behind her to keep Welly from escaping. “What are you…doing here?” she panted.

  The Viking stared at her as though she had escaped from an asylum. She supposed she probably did look rather wild and out of breath, but she was dressed and her hair had been coiffed…hadn’t it?

  “Have you come to see my father?”

  The Viking looked at the house and then at her, clearly trying to decide if she could be the daughter of a duke.

  “The duke. My father. Have you come to tell him about yesterday? Because you can’t, you know.”

  The Viking raised a brow.

  “Very well, you could. I mean, I can’t stop you. I could try, but, well”—she looked him up and down—“you’re much stronger than I am and certainly bigger.”

  Which was, of course, a gross understatement. She was not a petite woman, and this man still towered over her. He was easily two or three inches over six feet. He had blond hair, cut unfashionably short, and pale blue eyes. His features were as dramatic as his height. His face was all broad planes and jagged cuts of cheekbone and jaw. His clothes fit him well enough that she could see his frame was honed and muscled. What was more, his clothing was of good quality. He did not wear a cravat or a hat, though, and she found that rather odd, considering that his other garments were fashionable, clean, and polished.

  She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is that you shouldn’t tell him.”

  The Viking crossed his arms, the stance of a man waiting patiently for explanation. “Why not? You were almost killed.”

  “What? No! That’s an exaggeration.”

  “I never exaggerate.”

  No, he probably didn’t. He probably always said exactly what he meant and no more or less. Lorrie sighed, knowing she’d have to explain. Oh, but she dreaded explaining. “You see, my father and I are not on the best terms at the moment. I may or may not be at fault, depending on which point of view you take. If you tell him you saw me running down St. James’s Street, he’ll probably banish me to the country to live with Aunt Prudence, who we all call Aunt Pruneface because her face looks like a prune and she has the personality of one as well.”

  The Viking did not even smile. Everyone smiled at that little anecdote!

  “Please.” Lorrie put her hands together as though in prayer. “Do not send me to Aunt Pruneface.” The Viking looked unconvinced, and a phrase from one of Francis’s letters arose in her mind. “My soul will die a slow death.”

  The Viking’s eyes narrowed.

  “You don’t want to be responsible for the death of my soul, do you?”

  In answer, the Viking took a card from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. It was her father’s calling card. She knew it immediately. And that meant her father had summoned the Viking. He had not come to report on her behavior, after all.

  Not that she could trust he wouldn’t, but perhaps he would take pity on her.

  “I suppose you want to knock on the door now, don’t you?”

  “If it won’t endanger your soul.”

  Was that supposed to be amusing? She would have been amused if she wasn’t so mortified. As though to spur her to action, he stepped onto the first step, and though he was still two steps below her, they were now equal in height. She swallowed and reached behind her for the door handle. “You go ahead. And if you—ahem—forget to mention you saw me yesterday and, um, today, that small kindness would be most sincerely appreciated.”

  Lorrie pushed the door open, bent to retrieve Welly, and closed the door again. Then she lifted her skirts and ran back up the stairs just as the knocker banged ominously. She ducked around the corner, then peeked out to watch Bellweather enter the vestibule and open the door.

  “May I help you?” Bellweather asked in his nasal voice, as though Nordic giants called at her father’s London town house every day.

  The Viking handed Bellweather her father’s card. Clearly, the visitor was a man of few words. He had quite a nice voice though, low and rich.

  “Ah, I see now,” Bellweather was saying as he opened the door to admit the Viking. “Come in, sir. His Grace is expecting you in the library.”

  The library! Drat! She’d hoped the men would meet in the drawing room, making it possible for her to eavesdrop. But this was not a social call. Lorrie could not imagine the Viking ever made social calls. He was not the sort of man to discuss banal topics like the weather.

  He followed Bellweather toward the duke’s library, looking up at the stairs as he passed. Lorrie ducked back behind the wall. Did he know she watched him? Probably. Those ice blue eyes seemed to miss very little.

  She had two options now. One, she could return to her room and sit on pins and needles, waiting to see if her father summoned her to chastise her for her—as he would say—inappropriate and reckless behavior. Two, she could try to watch the meeting from the library window to gauge her father’s behavior and discover whether or not the Viking betrayed her.

  As she had no wish to sit in her chamber and wait, she deposited Wellington on her bed, closed the bedchamber door, and took the servants’ stairs to the ground floor and into the garden. Her father’s library had several windows, but all had been set rather high off the ground. She crept to the first window and peered inside, but she was too short and could only see the tops of the bookshelves lining the far wall. Nearby, a forgotten flowerpot had rolled on its side behind the shrubbery. Lorrie dragged it out and set it upside down under the window. Her white dress was now streaked with dirt and her slippers ruined, but that was a problem for later.

  Cautiously, Lorrie stepped onto the pot and peeked over the edge of the windowsill. She ducked down just as quickly. The dratted Viking faced the window. She peeked up again and then cursed under her breath. The Viking stared at her with a look of disapproval. So much for not being seen. Still, her father’s back was to the window, and he was the one she did not want to catch her.

  She gave the Viking a little wave, and the line between his brows deepened. Then his gaze went to her father’s face and he nodded as though listening to something
the duke was saying. When the Viking glanced back at her, Lorrie put a finger to her lips, reminding him not to say anything about the day before.

  He made no sign he understood, so Lorrie jumped up and down to catch his attention again. Unfortunately, her father must have sensed the movement because he turned to look over his shoulder, and Lorrie had to duck so quickly she stumbled off the flowerpot and fell on her bottom in the shrubbery.

  By the time she freed herself, her arms were scratched, leaves were in her hair, and her dress was torn. At this point, she hardly cared whether the Viking reported her misbehavior to her father or not. Under the window, she dusted herself off just as the Viking peered out and down at her.

  His expression was one of concern, and she gave him a little wave to let him know she was uninjured. His serious expression seemed carved in granite. Did the man ever smile? Even though she knew she must look a fright, she blew him a kiss before skipping away. Unfortunately, she hadn’t remembered the shrubbery, and she tripped over a trunk and stumbled forward most ungracefully.

  Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she didn’t turn back.

  * * *

  Had Lady Lorraine looked over her shoulder at that precise moment, she might have seen the ghost of a smile—or what passed for a smile—on Ewan’s lips. She was quite the most ridiculous person he had ever encountered. When her face had popped into the window behind the duke he’d wondered what the hell she was about. And then when she’d seemed to tumble out of sight, he worried she’d broken her neck. He’d almost craned his neck out of concern, but then she was back again.

  She reappeared in the window, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray and a smudge of dirt on her cheek that made her look…he did not know the word. He tried to think how Beaumont might describe her.

  Adorable. That was what Rafe would have called her. Ewan would have called her fortunate to still be alive, since she seemed to court trouble at every turn.

  Ridlington had been droning on whilst the charade outside continued. He seemed quite at home in the large room full of bookshelves and paneled in dark wood. Ewan couldn’t have said what the duke spoke of. The duke said whatever men did when they didn’t want to state their business outright. Ewan found it much more interesting to watch the duke’s daughter make her way back inside via the servants’ entrance.

  “You must be wondering why I asked you here,” Ridlington said.

  Ewan turned to face him. Finally, the man would state his business.

  “I know something about your background.”

  Or not. Ewan recognized the signs of more meaningless chatter. Ewan didn’t need to be told about his own background. He knew it already, but perhaps the duke felt reassured recounting it.

  “I know you served in the Peninsular War. You were in a special unit under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”

  Special. Yes, that was one way to describe it.

  The duke, who had stood to offer tea to Ewan and then remained standing when Ewan went to the window, sipped his tea. “My understanding is your group was given assignments other units rejected. There were thirty of you, all sons of nobility. The best and the brightest.”

  “The expendable,” Ewan added.

  The duke nodded. “Yes, none of you were heirs to the title. Only younger sons. Twelve of you returned, and you in particular distinguished yourself.”

  “I did my duty. Nothing more.”

  “The stories I heard were they called you the Protector because of the risks you took to keep the other men safe. Stories about you running back into a burning building to save—”

  Ewan raised a hand. His belly tightened at the mention of that day. The duke spoke of it, his voice flat and even, but to Ewan the memory was filled with panic and anguish. He could still see the face of the man he’d had to leave. Peter had been trapped behind a wall of fire, and Ewan’s strength hadn’t given him the ability to walk through fire. He’d left Peter to burn to death, left him as the heat seared his flesh and the screams began. Ewan would never forget those screams or how weak and paltry they’d made him feel. A man like Ridlington would never understand. With a wave of his hand, Ewan pretended to dismiss the retelling out of modesty. “We all have our talents. Mine is my strength.”

  “And that, my good sir, is exactly why I have come to you—or rather, asked you to come to me. I am in need of a bodyguard.”

  When Ewan didn’t speak, the duke swallowed more tea.

  “Not for me. For my daughter.”

  Ewan gritted his teeth. If the duke had said this from the start, it would have saved them both time. Ewan was no nursemaid. The duke’s request made perfect sense. It was quite obvious to Ewan that the lady needed a bodyguard, possibly three or four bodyguards. It was also clear that Ewan was not the man for the position. He had no intention of playing chaperone to a spoiled debutante of the ton.

  His thoughts might have shown on his face as the duke spoke quickly. “I do not want any bodyguard. I want a man who knows Society. The Season has begun, and Lady Lorraine will be attending balls, the theater, dinner parties, and whatnot. A man like you, the son of the Earl of Pembroke, can not only protect her but fit in at these affairs.” At this last statement, the duke gave Ewan a rather dubious look. Ewan was certain the words had sounded quite pleasing in Ridlington’s mind, but saying them to Ewan, who was over six feet tall and built of muscle, was a bit ridiculous. If there was anywhere Ewan did not belong, it was in a Society drawing room.

  “I will pay you extremely well.” The duke slid a folded sheet of paper across the desk. Ewan imagined if he opened it, a rather large number with several zeroes behind it would be written there.

  Without touching the paper, Ewan shook his head. “This is not for me.” He gave the duke a curt bow and started for the door.

  “Wait!” the duke ordered. “I haven’t told you all of it.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Ewan lifted the latch.

  “Please,” the duke said from behind him, his voice quiet as though he was unaccustomed to pleading. “I need your help.”

  Ewan couldn’t walk away from a man who sounded that desperate. He lowered the latch and stood facing the door.

  “Lorrie has it in her head that she is in love with a gentleman I find unacceptable.”

  This was the story of a hundred fathers. Ewan reached for the latch again.

  “She tried to elope,” the duke said quickly, “but the man backed out at the last minute. He knows I will not give her a shilling if she elopes with him, and he wants the blunt. Her dowry is quite large, you see. She is headstrong and willful, and her mother and I indulged her too much. We see that now. We allowed her to run amok in the country, and we’re finding it difficult to rein her in now that we are in Town. I worry she will be easy prey for the fortune hunters.”

  Ewan looked back at the duke who had taken a seat behind his desk again and who raked his hands through his hair.

  “There are as many fortune hunters as there are heiresses. You don’t need me.”

  “But I do. This man—I fail to understand why Lorrie cannot see that his charm is but an act and beneath the handsome face is a snake. But she fancies herself in love. I ordered her to search among the list of eligible gentlemen her mother and I have drafted, and she agreed reluctantly. But I do not think this man will allow her the opportunity to fall in love with another. I fear he will try to monopolize her at events or convince her to pretend she has a megrim and stay home. I need you to keep Mostyn away from Lorrie.”

  Ewan’s focus suddenly sharpened, and a chill ran down his arms. “Mostyn?”

  “Yes… Oh, I meant to tell you. I feared you might not accept because he is your cousin, but I hoped you might look beyond that to come to my aid.”

  “Francis Mostyn.” Ewan had several cousins, but he could see Francis’s fingerprints all over this. A co
ld ball formed in the pit of Ewan’s belly, the seed of an emotion Ewan knew well—hate.

  “That is he. My information is that you two are not close, but I understand if you feel compelled to reject my offer because of your relation—”

  “I accept.”

  “—but I hoped to convince… You accept?”

  “This position, what you want me to do? It prevents Francis Mostyn from taking what he wants?”

  “Assuming he wants my daughter and her fortune, yes, I would rely on you to prevent them from eloping and to keep him from her as much as possible. As to whether she meets another man she might consider marrying, I do not know. But I have every hope that given time, Francis Mostyn will show his true colors.”

  Ewan nodded. He hardly heard the duke. Hate and the desire for vengeance clouded his every sense. “I need a tour of the house and to meet every servant you employ.” His voice sounded far away and strangely calm, though fury and rage churned in him.

  The duke raised his tea, then set it down again. “You mean you intend to begin now?”

  “Now.” Ewan nodded.

  “I… But you have not even looked at my offer.”

  If that was what the duke needed to call the housekeeper to show Ewan the house, he’d do it. But the money no longer mattered. Revenge on Francis Mostyn was payment enough. Ewan crossed to the desk and unfolded the paper. It was a number with several zeroes after it, as he’d anticipated.

  He raised his gaze to the duke’s. “I looked. Where’s the housekeeper?”

  “Ah, I will ring for her. You could start tomorrow, you know.”

  Ewan stared at the duke, who finally raised his hands in surrender and pulled the bell cord. “I had thought to prepare the staff and my duchess for your—er, arrival. Please do not be offended if some of the staff is taken by surprise.”