Gallant Scoundrel

by Brenda Hiatt

  Her sudden desire to winter in London made him more curious than ever to know where the money for her gowns might be coming from.

  “Then it seems your motivation was as mercenary as mine.” He couldn’t quite keep all trace of accusation from his voice.

  She still affected nonchalance. “Yes, I suppose one might say that. There. We now have no pretense between us.”

  No pretense? Harry refilled his glass. Then, before he could stop himself, “Did Peter also give you the means to obtain such a fashionable wardrobe?”

  Xena blinked, then glanced down at the satin gown she wore, a telltale flush creeping up her throat. “No, of course not. I’ve…learned that it is possible to obtain surprisingly fashionable clothing for very little, if one knows where to shop.”

  Not for a minute did he believe that was a second-hand gown she wore, but as he had not yet drunk enough to ask point-blank who had bought it for her, he merely said, “Very resourceful,” and devoted his attention to his own soup.

  “You mentioned an allowance as well as your army cheque,” she commented after a moment. “I presume that comes from your father?”

  “Through m’father, anyway. A portion of what he receives as second son.” A distressingly small portion, but she didn’t need to know that.

  As Harry was no more willing to discuss the details of his finances—or lack thereof—than Xena seemed to be, he cast about for a safer topic of conversation than money, trying to recall what sorts of things they had talked about in Portugal and Spain. When they had been friends, if not yet lovers.

  “Tell me, are you still a student of ancient literature?”

  She looked up from her dish in obvious surprise. “I, ah, yes. Though less so since my father’s passing, I must admit. These days I’m more like to reread Shakespeare or Homer than to delve into obscure Sanskrit texts.”

  “From what I recall you telling me, those do tend to be a bit more dry.”

  “Accounts of day to day doings or even retellings of old battles do not hold the same fascination that epic tales do, though they were occasionally a welcome distraction from the war.” She scooped up her last spoonful of soup.

  “Do you…ever miss it?” he asked softly.

  Her gaze flew to his across the length of the table. “Miss it? The…battlefield, do you mean?”

  That wasn’t precisely what he’d meant, but he nodded.

  Pursing her lips distractingly, she considered his question. “I certainly don’t miss marching for days through the mud,” she finally answered. “Nor seeing promising young men maimed or blown to bits by the enemy. But I won’t deny there are things about it I do miss.”

  “Such as?”

  Now she gave him a wry smile—her most genuine since arriving in Grosvenor Street and one that put him forcibly in mind of the Xena he’d known before—so much so that he almost felt the intervening years fall away.

  “My freedom, for one. Though perhaps ’tis unreasonable to expect the same sort of liberty at six and twenty that I enjoyed at nineteen.” The sadness in her eyes unexpectedly tugged at his heart.

  “Why unreasonable? As a widow on your own, as you’ve believed yourself these four years past, you should have had even more freedom than before to dress or behave as you wished—or to go on adventures. Did your father become stricter on his return?”

  She shook her head, the sadness still in evidence. “No. But as one grows up, one learns that circumstances can become far more confining than mere rules.”

  He assumed she meant the lack of funds to which she’d repeatedly referred. Unless, perhaps, she was now answerable to someone other than her father…?

  “I mostly miss the camaraderie,” he volunteered abruptly. “There’s nothing like facing possible death together to forge strong bonds. Then there was the thrill that came with engaging the enemy, though that was often laced with a healthy dose of fear.”

  It was a thrill he’d managed to recapture to an extent during his exploits as the Saint of Seven Dials—one reason he was unwilling to suspend those activities completely for the next month. Especially if Xena persisted in pushing him away.

  * * *

  Xena’s worst fears were in a fair way to being confirmed. Already Harry had admitted to being a gamester with little else in the way of income, nor had he denied womanizing when she’d given him the chance. As for his drinking, she had the evidence of her own eyes. He was already on his third—or was it fourth?—glass of wine since sitting down to dinner.

  All of which served to strengthen her resolve to keep him ignorant of how much her father’s collection was worth, or the money she’d already received for a portion of it. It had been beyond foolish to wear yet another new gown tonight in a misguided desire to look her best for him. Wastrel or not, Harry was no fool.

  In addition, she recalled now how persistent he could be—and how he’d always known when she was being less than candid. The prickly exterior that had served to discourage the attentions of numerous men, both in the army camps and later in Yorkshire, had never worked with Harry. However else he’d changed, he’d lost none of his charm. She would have to be constantly on her guard to prevent him coaxing her secrets from her.

  Therefore, though reminiscing about the war was stirring up emotions better forgotten, it was surely safer than discussing the true state of her finances or her real reason for accepting Lord Peter’s bargain.

  “The excitement I felt at the prospect of battle is something I’ve also missed since leaving Spain,” she admitted to him after a moment. “Though my father tried to keep me well away from the front lines, we never knew when the enemy might overrun the camp.”

  “Requiring you to take up pistol or sword yourself—I remember.” His look, both amused and admiring, so like the ones he used to give her, produced a disturbing tremor in her midsection despite her resolve. “In the one such incident I witnessed for myself, you acquitted yourself so well that the entire regiment celebrated you as a heroine.”

  Harry’s smile became warmer, reminding Xena all too vividly of that evening—and of the private “celebration” she and Harry had enjoyed in his tent after her father and Yamini were asleep. In fact, it was that night she’d begun to suspect their relationship might be progressing beyond mere lust…

  Swallowing, she hurried into speech. “I, ah, had little choice but to fight on that occasion, as no one else was at hand to defend the patients. I therefore did what was necessary to prevent the enemy killing more of our young men—but I cannot claim it was something I enjoyed. Besting an opponent in a fencing or shooting match is one thing, but taking a life is quite different.”

  “Can’t say that was an aspect of war I enjoyed either.” His penetrating hazel eyes became shadowed. “In the heat of battle, it was easy enough to forget the Frenchies were real people, with homes and families. But afterward…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  For a moment it was as though the years fell away and they were still the young, idealistic people they’d been back then, bound not only by mutual attraction but by the horrors surrounding them at all-too-frequent intervals. With an effort, Xena dredged up less dangerous memories.

  “Even the long marches held a certain appeal,” she said when the soup dishes had been replaced by platters of fish and meat, and they were again alone in the dining room. “The countryside in that part of Portugal and Spain was often beautiful and the local people we encountered along the way were interesting and sometimes quite colorful in their own right. Did you not find that as well?”

  Harry agreed that he had and went on to describe a few sights and local experiences he remembered from later in the war, after Xena had left Spain. Thankfully, he seemed as willing as she to stick to safer topics for the moment.

  Still, Xena found herself increasingly, uncomfortably, aware of him, even across the length of the table. Smiles, gestures, inflections in his voice as he spoke, even the way he occasionally raised only his left eyebrow, were constan
t reminders of the Harry she’d known so very well seven years ago. Evidence, surely, that something of the man she’d admired was still buried beneath the cynical, dissipated creature he now appeared to be?

  But no, that was surely mere wishful thinking. She mustn’t allow those long-ago emotions—emotions she’d denied at the time—to cloud her judgment and undermine her defenses.

  Though the food was superb—the cook had clearly outdone herself—Xena was so distracted by Harry’s presence and her own thoughts that she was scarcely aware of what she was eating.

  “Shall I leave you to brandy and cigars?” she asked when the last course had been cleared away. Her father had rarely indulged in such things, but she knew it was the custom among the Quality for ladies to withdraw after dinner.

  “Not much fun by m’self,” Harry replied with a shrug.

  He’d drunk an entire bottle of wine over the course of the meal, less the one glass Xena had barely touched for fear of having her wits dulled and perhaps letting slip something she shouldn’t. Even so, he rose without the least sign of swaying and walked steadily to her side.

  “Suppose we both go up to the library, instead? Always been my favorite room here.”

  She stood before he could take her hand, then kept a discreet distance between them as she accompanied him from the room. Given her already-heightened awareness of him, touching seemed…unwise. His sardonic glance told her he noticed her forbearance and perhaps even guessed at the reason, but she chose to ignore it.

  “I take it you have been quite a frequent visitor here?” she asked when he moved confidently to the library sideboard to pour himself a measure of port.

  He chuckled. “Daresay I’ve spent nearly as much time in this house as Pete has—or did until he got himself leg-shackled. Er, married, I mean.”

  Perhaps the wine had had an effect after all.

  “Pray don’t feel you must censor your speech around me, Harry. I did spend more than two years in army camps, you know.”

  He looked back at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher but which threatened to bring color to her face again—something she refused to allow. She was not the sort of woman who blushed.

  “Even so, that didn’t come out the way I intended. Old habits and all that.”

  “Yes, well, in vino veritas. Perhaps after so much to drink you are merely revealing your true thoughts.” Not that she was certain she wanted to hear all of those…

  “So much—? Gadslife, Xena, I’ve barely drunk anything tonight. What are you on about? But if you think it likely to shake loose truths, I’ll pour you a generous measure as well.”

  “Thank you, no.” That he considered an entire bottle of wine “barely anything” lent additional weight to the conclusions she’d already drawn, further strengthening her resolve.

  He poured her a glass anyway. “Come, Xena, we may as well try to be comfortable, as we’ve both agreed to give Pete’s mad scheme a chance. He said you were willing to stay through the first of the year?”

  She took the glass he proffered almost without noticing. “That is what I agreed to, yes,” she said cautiously.

  “Yet the other night, you claimed you could not remain in London long—that you had important business to attend to in Yorkshire. Is that no longer true?”

  Caught off-guard, she avoided his penetrating gaze and lifted a shoulder. “’Tis…not quite so urgent as I’d thought, it turns out.”

  “You never were a good liar, Xena. In fact, you used to pride yourself on your forthrightness—though I suppose people do change over time.”

  Her eyes snapped back to his. “So I’ve noticed. When I knew you on the Peninsula, you never drank at all.” She nodded toward his already nearly-empty glass of port. “If you wish to declare this experiment a failure at the outset—”

  “Never said that, did I? I’m willing to give it a go if you are. Besides, five hundred pounds is more than I can afford to whistle down the wind.” He said it jokingly, but she was unable to see any humor in it when her son’s future potentially lay in this man’s hands.

  Unabashedly returning to the sideboard to refill his glass, he spoke over his shoulder. “So tell me, Xena, is there something in particular about London that convinced you to winter here after all?”

  Did he hope she would say it was him? Moving to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs near the fire, she took a cautious sip of port, something she’d not drunk in several years. It was a good vintage, the sweet liquid warming her throat pleasantly as it slid down.

  “I, ah, realized how much warmer it is here than in Yorkshire, for one,” she finally said. “And of course there are numerous amusements to be found here that are sadly lacking at home.”

  “Of course.” Regarding her intently now, Harry nudged the chair nearest hers a bit closer and sat. “Given those attractions, one wonders why you’ve never come to Town before?”

  Xena frowned. “As I said, money has been rather tight. My main purpose in coming now was to remedy that.”

  “Ah, yes. By selling some of your father’s foreign treasures. I do remember you saying so.” Again he allowed his gaze to rove over her body—or, rather, her new lilac-over-silver gown. “I take it you’ve met with rather more success these past few days?”

  “A bit, yes. Enough to allow me to refurbish my wardrobe, as you’ve clearly noticed, and to have the most pressing repairs begun at home. Another reason I prefer to stay in Town for the present,” she added on sudden inspiration. “Some of those repairs are like to be disruptive and noisy.”

  It was only a slight fib, for she hoped to have enough money for those repairs and more within a week or so, which she would forward to Yorkshire with precisely those instructions. She had already written asking her steward to package up and send the Grecian items she had agreed to sell. She still needed to devise a way to communicate with Mr. Gold from this house without Harry learning of it…

  He leaned in now, his gaze more penetrating than ever. “You seem distracted, Xena. Can it be you are finding this new arrangement as unsettling as I am?”

  “How can I not?” Though she tried to keep her voice light, she was disgusted to hear a slight tremor in it, for his nearness was indeed unsettling her. “Only three nights since, we both agreed to behave as though that marriage, which neither of us sought, never occurred. Now, thanks to the machinations of your friend, we are sharing a house! Little wonder if neither of us is quite certain how to act.”

  His rueful smile admitted the truth of her words. “It’s proving rather a challenge, I’ll grant you. But whatever our motives for going along with Pete’s experiment, now we are here, should we not make the best of it?”

  “Exactly how do you propose we do that?” Again she heard that traitorous tremor in her voice.

  “I can think of numerous ways.” His voice was low, silken. “Can’t you?”

  His suggestive tone, his charming, slightly wicked smile, took her instantly back to a time when she’d eagerly looked forward to each secret liaison. A time when her greatest pleasure in life had been those stolen moments of passion—a pleasure she had never dared hope she’d experience again…

  Desperately, sternly, she reminded herself that things were quite different now. Even if it were possible to recapture that passion, succumbing to Harry’s charm now would be a mistake. Wouldn’t it? Under his continued warm, searching regard, her resolve began to weaken.

  “I…ah…” She gave her head a small shake to clear it.

  Instantly, Harry’s expression changed. “Never mind.” Drawing back, he abruptly stood. “I’ve just remembered that I was to meet some friends this evening, so if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Oh. Er, of course.” She felt more disappointed than relieved by his sudden withdrawal, which of course was absurd. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from the gaming tables.” The acid that now laced her tone was aimed as much at herself as at him.

  “Very understanding of you.” His grin did not quite
reach his eyes. “You’re certain you don’t mind me leaving you our first night here?”

  “Not at all. As it happens, I have quite a bit of correspondence to attend to.” Her resolve safely back in place, she stood as well.

  Though she half feared—or hoped?—he would approach her again, he did not.

  “I’ll bid you good night, then.” With a formal nod, he turned and left the room.

  Xena blinked after him, chiding herself for her foolishly conflicting feelings a moment since. It was a good thing—a very good thing—that he was leaving before she could give into the temptation to do something she would almost certainly regret.

  As soon as she heard the front door close downstairs, she released a sigh that she told herself was purely from relief. She then headed up to her bedchamber for a boring evening of letter writing.

  CHAPTER 12

  HARRY STRODE down the street in the direction of one of his more disreputable gaming hells, cursing his stupidity. What a fool he’d been to think Xena might still be attracted to him now! If she was receiving the attentions of some rich gallant, as he felt increasingly certain she must be, what possible interest could she have in a useless half-pay soldier with one arm?

  A chorus of greetings met him as he entered the Black Crow, where he’d spent more debauched evenings than he could remember over the past two or three years. Clara, one of the pretty, buxom serving wenches the establishment was known for, hurried to plant a kiss on his cheek, pressing herself suggestively against him.

  “‘Arry, by my faith! It’s been a month and more. What c’n I give you?”

  Throwing his arm around her, he gave her shoulders a squeeze, then seated himself at an empty table. “Claret, as it’s nearly your namesake.” The squeeze and wink he gave her were from habit more than desire, for he was still preoccupied by thoughts of Xena.

  The wench snatched a just-opened bottle off the next table despite complaints from the men sitting there. “This be a prime ‘un. ’Twill put you in fine fettle for later.” With a saucy wink of her own, she sauntered off to fetch the still-protesting group another bottle.