Gallant Scoundrel

by Brenda Hiatt

  Though one white eyebrow went up, he nodded. “Very well, if you feel that is best. In any event, the reason I wished to see you was to deliver something I imagine you will be most happy to receive.” Reaching under the counter, he pulled out a paper-wrapped parcel. “My buyer sent this by, with word it was to be delivered to you as soon as possible.”

  Opening the parcel curiously, Xena stared at the contents with a sense of disbelief. “Is this everything he had promised? So soon?”

  Chuckling, Mr. Gold shook his head. “Nay, lass, it’s but a downpayment. One fifth of the total, his note said, to help defray transportation costs for the rest of the artifacts and your added expenses for remaining here in London longer than you had originally planned.”

  Still dazed, Xena met the shopkeeper’s twinkling blue gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Gold. Thank you very, very much! This will help enormously.”

  “He still wishes to meet with you, though he could not say when the press of business would allow it. The, ah, this gentleman is busy with extremely important matters, so I trust you are willing to be patient, given what he has already forwarded.”

  Xena smiled. “Yes. Yes I think I can now afford to be quite patient.” She bade him a cheerful goodbye, but with a parting reminder that all future messages be sent as discreetly as possible. It was still too soon to know whether the recent change in Harry’s behavior was a permanent one. Until she did, she dared not risk him learning of this windfall for fear he might be tempted to gamble it away.

  Suddenly, she realized that she now had ample resources to take Theo abroad, should she wish. Did she? Yamini insisted it would be a mistake, and her ayah’s counsel had rarely proved wrong in the past. Then there was the matter of her promise to Lord Peter. No, she must stay a while longer, if only to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. Still, it was good to have options.

  Her heart lighter than it had been in a long, long time, she bade the carriage driver take her to Madame Fanchot in Bond Street, where she impulsively ordered two more dresses in addition to the ball gown she was being fitted for. That she could afford ten times as many without appreciably depleting her funds was rather a delightful thought.

  If anything other than the money contributed to her buoyed spirits, she preferred not to think about it.

  * * *

  Harry was beginning to wonder if it was worth the effort to play the unaccustomed role of polished sophisticate evening after evening without receiving at least a bit of encouragement from Xena. Being near her again did make him wish to become a better man than he’d been of late—a man more like the one she remembered—but he was finding old habits devilish hard to shed.

  He’d cut his drinking nearly in half, yet she gave no indication she’d even noticed, much less cared. Nor had he gone out gaming again after that first night, which effectively removed him from all temptation by the women who frequented such establishments—not that he’d felt any particular inclination in that direction since commencing this experiment of Peter’s.

  Far from giving him a disgust of living practically in her pocket these past few days, being so near her only increased his yearning to recapture the passion they’d shared in their youth. It was for that reason he’d taken to going out after breakfast most days for some sort of exercise, in hopes of taking the edge off his desire. Not that it was working. He couldn’t help thinking another stint as the Saint might help, but with all these infernal engagements every evening, he had no idea when he’d manage one.

  Preparing to leave yet again after breakfast, he was therefore relieved to be told that a boy was asking for him at the back door. Xena had already repaired to the drawing room to receive yet more interminable morning calls, so he readily accompanied the footman through the house.

  Perhaps Flute had news of another family in desperate need of assistance, or word of a particularly ripe target for the Saint? When he stepped out into the barren kitchen gardens a few moments later, however, it was Tig who awaited him there.

  “I told you I’d contact you through Flute,” Harry whispered, guiding the boy toward the back gate, where they were less likely to be overheard.

  “Aye, guv, but I had to change where I been sleeping so I worried he mightn’t find me. Figured I’d best bring my report to you personal-like, just in case.”

  Harry didn’t have the heart to scold the lad for over-eagerness to carry out his task. “Very well. What have you to report?”

  “Been watching the house all along, like you said, guv’nor, but yesterday was the first time the lady you described went out without yerself. Thought you’d want to know.”

  Suppressing a grin at the boy’s self-important air, Harry nodded. “Yes, she went to Bond Street for a fitting. She told me.” What she hadn’t mentioned was where she was getting the means to pay for yet another dress.

  Tig shook his head emphatically. “Nay, guv, that she didn’t. Leastaways, not till the very end. I trotted along after the carriage she was in to see where it went.”

  “Trotted— You were able to keep up on foot?” Harry regarded the undersized urchin skeptically.

  “Oh, aye, there were enough traffic it couldn’t go but at a walking pace most of the time. Anyways, she went direct from here to a boarding house in Rundel Street, stayed there close on an hour, then went to a shop near Aldergate. Wasn’t in there long, but it was only after that she finally headed for Bond Street. She spent the better part of two hours in that shop before coming back here.” He beamed up at Harry.

  It was all Harry could do to smile back. What the devil was Xena up to? Clearly she’d met with someone at that house…and in a questionable part of Town. Did her wealthy protector perhaps keep a set of rooms there for the sole purpose of conducting discreet affaires away from the prying eyes of Society?

  Given Harry’s own past, a fair argument might be made that he had no right to be jealous even if his suspicion proved true, but he still burned to know.

  * * *

  Though her extravagance at Madame Fanchot’s gave Xena more than one pang of guilt over the next two days, she was glad she hadn’t stinted when she and Harry arrived for Lady Ellerby’s ball—Xena’s first. The ladies fairly glittered with silk, satin and jewels, while the gentlemen provided elegant counterpoint in their dark tailed coats and breeches.

  Harry was no exception, looking as distinguished as she’d yet seen him in his best evening attire, this coat specially tailored to make his injury less noticeable, with the left sleeve nonexistent rather than pinned up. Not even in his scarlet regimentals, shaved and brushed for the Commander’s review, had he ever looked more outrageously handsome.

  In her new ball gown of shimmering silver satin over a pure white underskirt, delivered only that afternoon, Xena felt confident that she at least looked the part of a proper gentleman’s wife…even if she didn’t feel much like one.

  Indeed, her excitement at attending her very first ball was tempered by more than a thread of trepidation. Dancing was by no means her forte and she’d had precious few chances to practice since being taught the basics as a girl. She rather regretted never attending the local assemblies in Yorkshire when numerous gentlemen approached nearly as soon as she was announced to request the honor of partnering her.

  When she looked to Harry for guidance on how to respond, he merely shrugged. “Don’t let my disinclination for dancing keep you from enjoying yourself tonight. Save me the supper dance and I’ll be more than content to spend my time in the card room.”

  With that encouragement, Xena was soon bespoken for every dance of the evening. Harry partnered her for the opening minuet after which, true to his word, he retired to the sidelines. That one dance had proved his skill far superior to her own, however, making her rather wish she could do the same. She wished it even more as she found herself apologizing to partner after partner for her frequent missteps.

  “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you’ve chosen to extend your stay in Town,” said the Duke of Wellin
gton as they began a waltz midway through the evening. “Rather had a feeling you might.”

  She looked up at her former commander in surprise and some misgiving. After their last encounter she’d been reluctant to agree to so intimate a dance as the waltz with him, but refusing the man England currently deemed second in importance only to the Prince Regent was out of the question. At least the waltz was less complicated than most of the country dances.

  “You did? Why is that?”

  He smiled down at her with the same warmth that had previously made her uncomfortable. “You implied a lack of funds compelled your return to Yorkshire, but I had already taken certain steps to help alleviate that concern.”

  “You took… Do you mean to say that you are the person who has offered to purchase my father’s Grecian collection, your grace?” Xena was not sure whether to be grateful or aghast.

  The Duke tightened his grip on her waist, his smile broadening. “My secret is out. Initially, I merely thought to help out the daughter of an old friend, but on seeing you at Apsley House last week, it is possible my motive became a trifle less pure.”

  Though her instinct was to pull away and leave him there on the dance floor, she could scarcely do so without causing a scene and giving rise to speculation. Before she could frame a diplomatic rejection of his implied offer, the Duke twirled her and Xena, considerably less than expert at the waltz, stumbled.

  He caught her before she could fall and embarrass herself further. “I fear I have shocked you, my dear,” he said with a chuckle. “Most women would be quite flattered.”

  “I am not most women,” Xena retorted stiffly, repeating what she’d told Harry during their first conversation. “I am also married, your grace—as you are well aware.”

  “Oh, aye.” He dismissed that argument with a shrug. “But as your husband will by no means desist from pursuing his pleasures on that account, you may see your way clear to do likewise.”

  Xena was startled—and more upset than she cared to admit—that the Duke could be so certain Harry did not intend to abide by his marriage vows. Still, she had no intention of being persuaded to similar indiscretions. Even were she tempted to do so—which she most definitely was not—she had her son to think of.

  “I’m sorry, your grace,” she said frostily. “If your purchase of those artifacts is contingent upon my agreement to a dalliance, I fear I must—”

  “No, no, of course not,” he interrupted her with another laugh. “I’ll buy the demmed knick-knacks, never fear—least I can do for Old Max’s daughter. Looks as though you’ve already put my down-payment to good use, in any event.” He cast an approving eye over her ensemble. “Nor did I gain my reputation in battle by surrendering after the first setback.” The dance ended then and he released her with a wink.

  Her face no doubt pinker than usual despite trying valiantly not to blush, Xena dipped the Duke a hurried curtsey and turned away, wishing fervently she could return every penny to him. Unfortunately, after spending a goodly portion on herself, she had already sent the balance of his money to Yorkshire. Upon hearing her name spoken as she left the floor, that wish intensified.

  “Mrs. Thatcher is angling to trade up, it would seem,” Mrs. Mellings whispered loudly.

  “I daresay,” agreed Lady Digby, wagging her turban. “Though that may well be a source of relief rather than concern to her husband. Wellington is known to be most generous to his lovers.”

  Mrs. Mellings nodded. “Aye, I can’t imagine Mr. Thatcher would turn away a bit extra, no matter the source.” She tittered.

  “It will also give him more leisure to resume his own interests, which I overheard Lady Grant saying he has been forced to neglect of late.”

  Xena determinedly moved out of earshot, pretending not to have heard, though she suspected she’d been meant to. Let the gossips say what they wished. She’d done nothing wrong. Nor had she formed any foolish illusions about Harry or their marriage, despite the apparent—and no doubt temporary—change she’d seen in him these past days.

  Even so, she was turning instinctively to scan the crowded room for Harry when her next partner stepped forward. With a bow and a fulsome compliment on her nonexistent “grace” in the dance, Mr. Pottinger led her back out for the cotillion just forming. For an instant she thought she spotted Harry near an archway, but when she looked again he was gone.

  Not until the supper dance did she again encounter her husband, by which time her distress over the Duke’s suggestive remarks had faded somewhat. Harry proved as adept at the waltz as General Wellington, though of course he could not take her right hand in his left, instead directing her to place her hand against his chest.

  When she commented on his skill, he smiled down at her. “I do my best, considering.” He grimaced toward his left shoulder. “’Twas something Wellington expected of all his officers. It stood me in good stead in Vienna, though I can’t claim to enjoy it.”

  Xena tried not to look conscious at mention of Wellington’s name, but feared she was not entirely successful. “Was the card room to your liking?” she asked quickly, hoping he would not notice.

  “Not particularly. Our hosts decreed but penny stakes for the evening, which takes most of the fun from it. Pity, that, or I’d be well up by now.”

  She mentally congratulated their hosts on their wisdom while contenting herself with nodding in mock sympathy.

  Supper was a noisy affair, allowing for little in the way of real conversation. The knowledge that she was engaged for another dance with the Duke immediately afterward prevented Xena from properly enjoying the assortment of dainties available.

  When the dancing resumed, she was pleased to discover the first was not another waltz. Her relief was short-lived, however, for the country dance had scarcely begun when the Duke reopened his earlier topic.

  “I must apologize for shocking you earlier, my dear,” he said while deftly stepping through the figures. “I confess, I did not believe it possible after the time you spent in army camps. Old Max must have done a better job shielding you from the baser instincts of my soldiers than I expected of him, absentminded as he could often be.”

  As Xena had managed to carry on an affair with Harry for nearly three months practically under her father’s nose, that was scarcely true but of course she did not say so. “I was merely…surprised, your grace,” she forced herself to say before the movements of the dance separated them.

  When next they came together, he took the opportunity to say, “I don’t suppose I might persuade you—and Thatcher, of course—to come to Paris? I’m bound there this Tuesday and would be happy to show you all the delights that city has to offer.”

  Though Xena had long wished to visit Paris after all she’d heard about that city, accepting an invitation such as this was obviously out of the question. “I fear my husband and I are fixed in Town for the present, your grace.”

  He smiled, turning about as the dance required. “I hope once you’ve acquired a bit of Town bronze you’ll reconsider, my dear. As for Thatcher, I’ve no doubt he would enjoy Paris enormously. All his favorite vices are to be found there, multiplied a hundredfold.”

  Stung by this reminder of how generally known Harry’s indiscretions were among the ton, she completed the dance in silence, her enjoyment of the evening effectively quenched.

  * * *

  Harry watched balefully from the sidelines as Xena exchanged flirtatious banter with Wellington during their second dance of the evening. It had seemed only fair to encourage Xena to dance with other gentlemen tonight as this was her first ball and he disliked the exercise himself. Now, however, he was beginning to regret his generosity.

  That Xena proved less skilled a dancer than Harry himself mattered little, for she covered her blunders well, with humor and grace. He supposed he should be grateful his former general had danced with her only twice thus far, but the way he looked and spoke to her made it abundantly clear he regarded her as far more than the daughter of an
old friend.

  Xena’s feelings were less easy to decipher, but she would scarcely have accepted him a second time were she attempting to discourage him.

  A sudden, hearty slap on his back, made Harry spill half the wine in his nearly-untouched glass.

  “What ho, Harry!” exclaimed Lord Fernworth. “Looks like your missus is making quite the conquest, eh?” He waved his own glass toward the dance floor, slopping wine himself, though he appeared not to notice.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry turned his back on the dancers. As usual, Ferny was nearly too drunk to stand—though that never kept him from talking, and far too loudly.

  Fernworth snorted a guffaw, then hiccuped. “Can’t fool me, Harry, m’boy. Saw you watchin’ ‘em. But buck up! Wellington’s known to do quite handsomely by the husbands of his lady-loves. With luck, you’ll soon have extra blunt for the tables, not to mention more time to pursue your own pleasures, eh?”

  Heads were beginning to turn their way so Harry attempted to usher his sometime-friend away from the floor. “Let’s get some coffee into you, what do you say, Ferny?”

  He received a pitying look in return. “That the way of it, then, Harry? Leg-shackled only a week and already under the cat’s paw? Turning priggish as Lord Peter, you are, and no doubt just as besotted by your wife. Poor blighter.” Blearily shaking his head, he wandered off to refill his now-empty glass.

  Harry frowned after him. Ferny was a drunken nodcock, of course, worse than Harry had ever been, but he was uncomfortably aware that only a month ago he’d uttered similar words to Pete—and before that, to various other friends. Was Ferny right that Harry was beginning to exhibit the very symptoms he’d previously deplored in Jack and Pete? Worse, was he right about Wellington and Xena? It would explain much.