Noble Intentions n-1

by Katie MacAlister

  “Oh, pooh, it’s nothing that I couldn’t take care of.”

  Gillian rolled her eyes and looked back at the list again.

  “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  Charlotte looked over her shoulder again. “Padded? Well, of course it does! You wouldn’t want me marrying a man who pads his shoulders and calves, would you?”

  “Well, of course not, whatever was I thinking?”

  “Selfish, that’s what you’ve become since you’ve been married — very, very selfish, thinking only of yourself. Now then, is there anything else you think we should ask this Lord Carlisle?”

  Gillian chewed on her lower lip as she thought. “I would like to know the nature of his argument with Noble, but I’m not sure how forthcoming he would be about that.”

  Charlotte smiled a wicked smile, then suddenly the expression was gone, replaced by one of innocence so pure and sweet it would make an angel weep.

  “Oh, you’re good,” Gillian said with a rueful smile. “You should really be on the stage, Char. Do you think it would work on him?”

  Charlotte maintained the dewy-eyed, sweet expression for a few more seconds, then dimpled at her cousin. “Practice, my dear, it’s all practice. I will be happy to show you how to do it on the way to Lord Carlisle’s. It’s just a matter of projecting innocence, if you will…”

  “Some other time, perhaps.” Gillian waved her cousin toward the door and turned to hurry Nick along. She was rewarded by the sight of a nine-year-old boy frozen in a pose of humble meekness and submission. He gazed at her with an expression so pure of heart it positively radiated ingenuity and artlessness. He batted his long dark lashes slowly over his silver-gray eyes, then peeked out from beneath them to see her reaction. Gillian laughed and kissed his rosy, cherub’s cheek. “Yes, yes, I can see you too should be on the stage. Come along, Mr. Kean. Your audience is impatiently awaiting your next performance.”

  “Is it absolutely necessary,” Charlotte asked some minutes later, squirming in the seat and managing to poke her elbow into Gillian’s ribs, “that we bring those hounds? And your pirate? And three footmen? I feel as if I’m in the Lord Mayor’s parade.”

  Gillian tried to expand her lungs enough to breathe a sigh, but was crammed in too tightly and had to make do with a tsk instead.

  “Tsk, Charlotte! I tried to tell Crouch that it wasn’t necessary to bring three footmen with us, but he muttered something about Noble leaving orders that Nick and I not go out without ample protection, and this is Crouch’s idea of ample protection. I sincerely hope the carriage doesn’t collapse under our combined weight. It seems a little frail.”

  Nick squirmed alongside her, flailed his arms and legs for a moment, then shot forward, gasping for air.

  “Oh, dear, Nick, I’m so sorry. Could you not breathe? Are you all right now? It’s this tiny old carriage — the landau would have to take this day to have a faulty wheel.”

  Charlotte pulled her head in from the window. “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just explaining to Nick about the carriage, and why we have so much protection, although honestly, I would have thought that Piddle and Erp would be enough.”

  “They are outside of enough,” her cousin replied, glaring at the seat opposite, where the two hounds were stuffed together, and with a sniff pushed the window open even wider. “This is ridiculous. I would have kept Papa’s carriage if I had known you were going to squish me into this minuscule little box with those two beasts. What will Lord Carlisle think when he sees how wrinkled my gown is?”

  “I believe he will have more important things to notice, Char.”

  Charlotte looked at her in horror. “More important than my gown? I think not!”

  “Don’t be so self-centered. Gentlemen like Lord Carlisle have other things on their mind than concerning themselves with the state — wrinkled or unwrinkled — of gowns.”

  “The gentlemen you know may have other things on their minds, but the gentlemen I know pay particular attention to a lady’s gown.”

  “The gentlemen you know are fops.”

  “Gillian!”

  Gillian didn’t have the energy, or lung capacity, to argue the point any further, so she contented herself with running over the list of items she wished to discuss with the Scottish speeler earl.

  The earl was just stepping into his carriage when they arrived. He paused, one hand on the carriage and a look of surprise on his face as it pulled up before him. He counted the liveried footmen clinging to the upper seats of the approaching carriage and almost bolted once he got a look at the behemoth who dangled from the rear.

  “Crotch,” he spat at his coachman, and stepped back down onto the pavement. The coachman promptly pawed at himself in an attempt to make sure nothing untoward was showing.

  “No, you fool, not yours, that one. That giant one clinging to the rear of that blasted carriage. It’s Crotch, Weston’s thug of a butler. What the devil is he doing here?”

  There was a slight commotion as the carriage came to a halt. Several footmen leaped off the vehicle and surrounded it in a protective manner. The carriage swayed alarmingly from side to side, then a familiar red head popped out of the window.

  “Lord Carlisle, how opportune our arrival was. Might I beg a few moments of your time?”

  Carlisle blinked at the image before his eyes. She had escaped Weston’s clutches? A warm sense of satisfaction, coupled with a curiosity about her request, made him reconsider his morning’s plans.

  “My time is yours, madam,” he replied with a courtly bow that was sadly lost on its recipient, her head having been retracted back into the carriage.

  One of the footmen stood rattling the door to her carriage, and requested that the occupants unlock it. The carriage rocked violently back and forth, emitting periodic oaths and halfshouted exclamations that surprised Carlisle. What the devil was in that carriage? A bull? An elephant? Several elephants? The footman repeated his request, but it was lost in the cacophony from within. Curiosity drove him closer.

  “If you would just move your leg, cousin…”

  “Well, I’m trying, Char, but you’re on my gown and I can’t move. Argh!”

  “Sorry, my elbow slipped…”

  “Nick, darling, would you climb over…ow! Charlotte!..would you climb over Erp and slither through the window? I believe…Charlotte, if you poke me once again, I swear I’ll…”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Charlotte!”

  “Well, you’d swear too if your lovely blond lace just ripped off your sleeve.”

  “Nick, you’re standing on my hand…ah, thank you. If you would try the window…oh, dear. Dickon, will you stop shouting at us, we’re trying. The door seems to be stuck! Blast!”

  “Gillian!”

  “Oh, don’t Gillian me in that tone; you’re the one who swore first. Will you kindly remove your elbow from my kidney, cousin?”

  “Here, Nick, let me give you a little boost through the window, shall I?”

  “Charlotte, if you hurt my child…”

  “I shan’t hurt…that was my hair!”

  “Sorry. My hand slipped.”

  “I shan’t hurt him, but I will push the little blighter through since you seem to be incapable of it.”

  “Ow! Was that absolutely necessary?”

  “My hand slipped.”

  “Ha!”

  Half of a small boy suddenly emerged from the carriage window. Lord Carlisle, watching with the same sort of fascination that sweeps over those who pass by hangings, accidents, and other gruesome sights, stood mesmerized. How many people were in there? And what was an Erp? Was the child alive, or had he been ejected for other purposes? It was difficult to tell whether he was flailing his arms of his own accord, or if the footman, attempting to assist, was bobbing the lad around.

  “Nick, darling, if you could push all the way through, I would be most appreciative. It’s not easy dodging your feet.”

  “Ow!”<
br />
  “You see, dearest? You just clipped your cousin Charlotte on the chin.”

  “That little rotter! He did it on purpose! Scoot over, I’ll push him through the bloody window.”

  “Charlotte, if you lay one finger on him…oh, dear God.”

  The carriage suddenly stopped rocking. Carlisle leaned forward, a chill running down his spine upon hearing the dread in Lady Weston’s voice. What had happened? A sudden illness? Had the boy, who, if the footman’s unsuccessful attempts to tug him through the window were any indication, was stuck, collapsed? Had something happened to the lady named Charlotte, the one with the torn blond lace? Only a calamity of the most heinous kind could be responsible for the tones of horror echoed in Lady Weston’s voice.

  “Dickon? Crouch? Will someone get the bloody door open right now? I think Piddle is going to be sick!”

  The hairs on Lord Carlisle’s neck stood on end at the bloodcurdling scream that rent the air at Lady Weston’s pronouncement, but in the end, its owner was responsible for the resolution of the situation. After several loud wallops to the side of the carriage — Lord Carlisle assumed the lady Charlotte was kicking down the door — it popped open, and only the quick action of the footman named Dickon saved the small boy from crashing into the side of the carriage. Moments later the boy was pushed backward through the window, and two large, slobbering dogs shot out of the carriage, followed immediately by Lady Weston and a woman with, he couldn’t help noticing, an extremely wrinkled gown.

  “Lord Carlisle.” Gillian bobbed a curtsy and tried to ignore Piddle, who was being noisily sick on the pavement next to her. “How delightful to see you again. Have you made the acquaintance of my cousin, Lady Charlotte Collins?”

  “Lord Carlisle,” Charlotte curtsyed. “You must forgive my appearance. I seldom go out in public, my Mama being protective of my delicate sensibilities and naturally shy nature, but my dearest cousin begged me in such a manner that I was unable to refuse her request.”

  “You will notice how modest and retiring she is,” Gillian said helpfully, unable to resist laughing at her cousin’s expression of innocence and shy maidenhood. Charlotte had told her that particular combination of expressions had garnered her three proposals of marriage.

  “Er…of course. Most modest and retiring. Perhaps we might continue this fascinating discussion inside? Is your…uh…dog finished there? Yes? Perhaps Crotch would take them around back to the stables.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gillian didn’t think she had heard the earl correctly.

  “Crotch,” he said, flapping his hands at the dogs, who had ambled over to him to conduct a quick gender check on this new person.

  Charlotte let out an innocent, maidenly sort of gasp and fanned herself in a manner most becoming to a modest, retiring person.

  A blush burned up Gillian’s face. God’s spleen, would she never be able to go anywhere with her dogs? “Oh, yes, of course, crotch. Lord Carlisle, I’m so embarrassed. They always do that. Piddle! Erp! Naughty dogs! I hope they didn’t…er…hurt you in their investigations. They like to smell people, you see, and try as I might I’m not able to break them of the habit of sniffing…er…of sniffing.”

  The earl narrowed his eyes at her.

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Charlotte clutched her arm and hissed a warning not to pursue the conversation. Gillian ignored it. “Your crotch, of course.”

  “My what?” The earl’s voice rose as Erp decided to investigate again. “Down, sir! Down!”

  “Erp! Bad dog! Nick, darling, grab Erp and keep him from doing that. I do apologize again, Lord Carlisle,” Gillian said, holding on to Piddle’s collar. “But as we’ve settled the question of your crotch, might we go inside?”

  The earl stared for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them up again, she was still standing there, still smiling that charming, lovely, completely misleading smile. He began to feel sorry for the wife-killer Weston. He had a suspicion that this time the Black Earl had met his match.

  The Black Earl was beginning to believe the very same thing. He emerged from his consultation with John Stafford, the chief clerk for the Bow Street Runners, and was assured of help gathering proof that the bastard McGregor was behind the threats to himself and Gillian, and the attack of a few evenings past.

  “Are you sure it’s Lord Carlisle who is behind these letters?” Stafford asked.

  “As sure as I can be without having his admission of the fact,” Noble replied. “The man is a heartless devil who preys on women. He is responsible for the death of my late wife, and holds great animosity for me.”

  “I’m sure that is the case, my lord, but I must investigate the situation fully. Are you certain there are no other individuals who would wish to see you come to harm?”

  “Any number, I’m certain,” Noble replied with a wry twist to his mouth. “Half the ton believes I murdered my wife, the other half believes I’m a notorious rake. None of them, however, are privy to the information that is contained within the threatening letters.”

  “You will, of course, refuse to pay the blackmail sum demanded?”

  “That goes without saying.”

  Stafford nodded his head and glanced down at the most recent letter Noble had received. “I can give you three men, my lord.”

  Noble stretched out his arm and retrieved his letter. “I had hoped for more.”

  “I’m afraid three is the best I can do at the moment. They will be round your house in the morning.”

  Noble wrote a few lines on the back of a calling card. “Have them present this to my butler, Crouch. Or Tremayne. Either of them; they’re both my butlers.”

  Stafford raised his brows. “You have two butlers in one house, my lord?”

  “Yes,” he replied, pocketing the letter and standing. “It was my wife’s idea.”

  His words echoed in his head a short time later as his carriage rolled toward a certain address near Russell Square. Was it really Gillian’s idea to have the second Tremayne brother follow her up to his town house? She had said something about him helping Crouch learn to be less a pirate, which made no sense at all. Despite his hook, Crouch was not a pirate. Lord knew, the man got seasick just walking on a bridge over a river.

  “Gillian,” he said softly, gazing out the window, blind to all but the image of the tall, redheaded Amazon who had moved into his heart. How had she done it? He’d never expected to feel anything beyond mild affection for a woman again, and yet she was consuming his every thought.

  Gillian. Just the sound of her name sent tendrils of heat through him; many of them, it was true, pooling in his groin, but he was also conscious of a gentle, soothing glow radiating out from the bright light she cast, warming him and making him believe he was human again.

  Gillian. His wife, the woman who bore his name and would bear his children. He thought of her plump and round with his babe, and a spurt of base masculine pleasure added to the warmth already heating him.

  Gillian. The woman who was walking down the front steps of his most hated enemy’s house, her arm linked through his, laughing up at that bastard murderer McGregor with a smile that should be reserved solely for him.

  Gillian!

  “What the bloody hell is this?” he roared, jumping out of the carriage before his coachman could bring the horses to a stop. “By God’s ten toes, woman, what the hell do you think you are doing with that man?”

  Gillian stopped on the last step, astonishment writ clearly on her face at the sight of her husband charging down the pavement toward her. “Noble?”

  “Yes, Noble,” he snarled, and lunged toward the Scot.

  “Noble! How wonderful you could join us! Nick, my dear, your papa has come to join us, isn’t that wonderful?”

  Noble stopped, his hands a mere fraction of an inch from Carlisle’s throat. “Nick?” His voice was thick as he flexed his fingers. She had brought Nick with her? She had brought Nick wi
th her while she kept an assignation with the man who was responsible for the death of his wife? She had brought his son with her while she tore out his heart and killed any last vestiges of human kindness left within him?

  “Good afternoon, Lord Weston.”

  Noble blinked at the sight of a lovely blond woman, a familiar blond woman, a woman who, if the maidenly blush and shy eyes were anything to go by, had just been released from a convent.

  “You remember my cousin Charlotte, don’t you, Noble?”

  “Ah…”

  “ ’Ere ye are then, yer lordship. I was tellin’ the mistress that it weren’t right ’er payin’ this call without yer, but ye know ’ow the ladies is.”

  “Er…”

  “Charles, Dickon, ’elp Tremayne up there with those ’orses. They don’t like the looks of Piddle and Herp.”

  “Uh…” Piddle? Erp? Noble peered between his wife and his enemy. Was there anyone from his home not present? As the heat from the suspicions of a moment before faded, a new fire roared to life when his eyes narrowed at the sight of that murdering bastard McGregor’s hand resting possessively on Gillian’s.

  “Mine!” he roared, and scooped Gillian up and deposited her on the pavement behind him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Gillian asked, poking him in the back. “Did you just shout mine in a voice loud enough to be heard in Canterbury?”

  “Be still, woman, while I deal with this bastard,” Noble bellowed.

  “Bastard, eh? That’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Carlisle roared back.

  “Mine? As in I belong to you, husband?”

  “What the devil were you doing with my wife and son?” Noble yelled.

  “As if I were your possession?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Carlisle answered, his voice echoing off the houses across the street.

  “I cannot believe you actually stood there and bellowed the word mine as if I were a toy and you a four-year-old child, Noble!”

  “Like hell it’s not! I demand to know what they were doing here!” Noble thundered.