In the doorway lounged a tall man in impeccable black evening clothes. One ankle crossed over the other, his arms folded across his chest, he leaned against the doorframe. His posture betrayed insufferable boredom. Guilt smote her—for this venture of hers and her brother Bernard’s, could not work with bored guests—until she flicked her gaze up to his saturnine face. Short, black hair framed a stunningly handsome countenance. Or at least it would have been handsome were it not for the upward slope of his somewhat satanic eyebrows and the discontented curve of his full, decadent lips. Disconcertingly, his hard, grey eyes were fixed on hers.
A flush rose to her cheeks, adding to her flustered state. She had to force herself to a vague, distant smile and a slightly breathless, “Excuse me,” as she hurried past. Although he unfolded his arms, he certainly didn’t jump to give her room.
London manners, she assumed scathingly. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, she’d have been disappointed. Such a good looking man should have been better natured.
Hastily, she returned the good evenings of the elderly Misses Dundas at the whist table, and waved in friendly manner to the many greetings called out to her by the officers playing piquet and hazard.
“Doctor Morton,” she exclaimed in relief, as she finally reached her grey-whiskered quarry in his regimental red and gold coat. He stood, drinking tea with another officer and a visiting gentleman with gout.
He beamed upon her. “Ah, there you are, Gillie! How are you?”
“Perfectly well, Doctor,” she said thoughtlessly, before realizing she could have used ill-health as a reason to extract him from the company. Oh well. “But I wondered if we might have a word on another matter?”
Giving him little choice, she relieved him of his cup and saucer, setting them down on the side table. Then she simply took his arm and tugged.
Doctor Morton, who’d known her since childhood—had indeed delivered both Gillie and Bernard to their proud parents—patted her hand in a soothing kind of a way.
“What’s up, little lamb?” he asked jovially.
She barely noticed the nick-name, which had been given to her when she was about eight years old and imitating the jumping of spring lambs for the entertainment of her parents’ friends.
She lowered her voice so that he had to duck his head to hear her. “We have an injured man in the cellar and I’m afraid he’ll die if you don’t help him. Or even if you do,” she added honestly.
“Not sure the cellar’s the best place for an injured man,” the doctor observed.
“I’ll move him when I can,” Gillie promised. “But if you would be so very good as to look at him now in the cellar—” She broke off, for by then they’d reached the salon door, where the dark, satanic stranger still lurked, still watching her. At least he’d uncrossed his ankles by then, and he did move aside with the faintest, ironic bow as they brushed through the door.
Annoyingly, the entrance hall was now clear, leaving the stranger a direct view of her passage with the doctor across the hall to the basement stairs. God knew what he imagined, although she comforted herself with the undoubted fact that it was none of his business.
The rest of the smugglers had cravenly vanished, presumably back along the tunnel to the Black Cove and their ship, leaving poor Jack behind on the wooden table surrounded by bottles and kegs. There was a lot of blood, clearly visible, even in the dim light, although Jack had blessedly lost consciousness again.
“You’re still buying from smugglers?” Doctor Morton said, scowling, as he took in the situation and lifted a lit lantern from the floor. “You do know they’re in league with Bonaparte himself now, don’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t believe ours are,” Gillie said staunchly. “Not directly, at any rate. They bring the stuff north from colleagues on the south coast. Who may well,” she admitted honestly, “be in league with Bonaparte. But where else would I get brandy of this quality?”
Doctor Morton grunted. “Go away, Gillie. Send me some water and bandages and preferably a maid you trust—or even Bernard—to assist me.”
“I can assist you,” she offered.
“Your absence will be noted,” Morton said, already cutting away the man’s coat with a knife from his belt. “It already has been, you know. I’ll speak to you later.”
She hesitated only a moment longer. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said awkwardly, then, pausing only to pat the unconscious Jack’s good shoulder, she hurried back upstairs.
Forcing herself not to glance in the direction of the salon in case the satanic gentleman was still there, she crossed the hall and ran up the main staircase, calling for Dulcie who had been nursemaid and surrogate mother to both herself and her brother.
“Dulcie, you must take bandages to Doctor Morton in the cellar, and collect a bowl of fresh water from the kitchen for him, too.”
Dulcie, somewhat erratically mending stockings by the old nursery lamplight, stared at her. “What’s the doctor doing in the cellar?”
“Hopefully sewing up a shot smuggler,” Gillie said frankly. “I can’t help since we have a house full of guests who mustn’t know anything about it.”
“Where is your aunt?” Dulcie demanded, hurling stocking and needle from her. “I don’t know what she’s thinking of, allowing these ridiculous parties—which will be the end of you, Gillie Muir, mark my words! It just isn’t a respectable way to go on. And now she’s allowing smugglers in the cellar!”
“Dulcie, please will you look after Jack?” Gillie begged. “We’ll put him somewhere more comfortable later, but truly, we can’t let him die. He took Bernie and me fishing when we were children. You came once, too.”
Dulcie sniffed and stood up. Reaching to the top drawer of the dresser, she extracted long strips of bandage, stuffing them into her work bag on top of whatever else was in there. She added scissors and several jars and bottles familiar to Gillie from childhood scrapes and bruises. What use they might be to a man with far more serious injury, Gillie didn’t care to guess. But at least they proved Dulcie’s cooperation.
Gillie blew her a kiss. “Thank you, Dulcie!” Pausing only to check her hair and gown in the glass, she hurried back downstairs.
To her relief, the strange gentleman no longer propped up the salon doorway. It hadn’t been comfortable to have her comings and goings observed quite so closely, although she couldn’t help a flicker of interest in return. She wondered who he was and why he had come to a place which so clearly bored him.
However, her respite was short-lived, for as Dulcie began to hobble downstairs behind her, a movement caught Gillie’s eye at the basement stairs.
Her stomach lurched with quick alarm, for she knew Doctor Morton could not have finished with his patient so soon. Since no one else was around to see, she leapt the last three steps at once and bolted across the hall to the cellar stairs. An elegant, dark-haired gentleman in black had almost reached the shadows at the bottom. Worse, she was sure she recognized him.
“Sir!”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. It was indeed the satanic gentleman.
“Madam,” he returned, with the faintest bow. His voice was cool, deep, and far from unpleasant. Nor did he seem remotely embarrassed to be discovered at the foot of a stranger’s cellar stairs.
“If there is something you require, allow me to fetch it for you,” she said as civilly as she could.
“A key to this door would be appreciated.”
In fact, she hadn’t even locked it, but something about his face told her his outrageous request wasn’t entirely serious.
“Unfortunately, I cannot help you there,” she said regally. “But I assure you we don’t require our guests to fetch their own wine from our cellar. The servants will bring it to you.”
“I’m disappointed. It seemed such a busy place that I was sure there was some much more interesting entertainment going on down here.”
“Hardly,” Gillie said hastily, ignoring the not-so-veiled insult. “Unless
you find broken bottles diverting.”
Part of her itched to descend the rest of the way, seize him by the arm, and drag him back up the stairs before he could reach out and open the cellar door. But somehow, he didn’t seem the kind of man one would touch let alone drag around without permission. Which was ridiculous when he was undoubtedly in the wrong. She hoped she wouldn’t need to summon Danny from his watch position outside… She struggled to find polite words to order the stranger back up.
Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Don’t spare my feelings. I’m well aware I have no business exploring your house without permission.”
She swallowed, for even in the poor light, that smile was devastating. A little desperately, she lifted her chin. “Then please be so good as to return with me to the salons.”
Before she’d even finished speaking, he moved with unexpected speed and no less elegance, climbing the steps three at a time. By her last word, he stood on the same step as she, gazing down at her with remains of that overwhelming smile still lurking on his sensual lips.
“With pleasure,” he murmured.
There was something altogether too large and disturbing about his person so close to her. He smelled very clean and fresh…apart from the hint of wine on his breath that reminded her to turn hastily and take the last two steps back up to the hallway.
Although he followed her obediently, she was sure his gaze mocked her. She could feel it burning into the back of her neck as they walked in silence to the salon.
From the whist table between the Misses Dundas, her aunt Margaret cocked an interrogative eyebrow. Gillie nodded reassuringly and turned straight into an officer who seized both of her hands and spun her around in a circle before kissing her cheek.
“Gillie Muir! It is you!”
“Kit!” she exclaimed with delight, recognizing an old friend who had been in Spain for the last several months. “How wonderful! I didn’t know you were back.”
Kit released her hands to point at his leg with a grimace. “Wretched thing’s misbehaving, so they sent me home on leave. Which is dashed annoying when I could be helping kick Bonaparte out of Spain!”
“They sent him to Doctor Morton,” one of his companions, Major Randolph, explained, “whom he’s avoiding like the plague. Which is no way to get back to Spain in a hurry.”
Kit—more properly, Captain Grantham, whom she’d known since he was a very green and youthful coronet—aimed an easily dodged kick at Randolph’s shins. “You just want to take my place,”
“I do, dear boy, and more,” Randolph said lazily, “but there, someone has to shuffle the regimental papers.”
Major Randolph, once tipped to be the new commander of the 44th when Colonel Fredericks retired, had been passed over for a new man from a different regiment altogether. Randolph had never shown the slightest sign of disappointment or complained about being part of the staff left behind when half the regiment joined Lord Wellington on the Peninsula. Gillie liked him for that, although not for drawing attention to Doctor Morton’s absence.
“Where is the old quack?” Randolph inquired, looking around him.
“He’s here tonight, somewhere,” Gillie said hastily, reminded to glance around for her satanic stranger while she pretended to search for the doctor. She caught a glimpse of his back wandering into the smaller salon, but before she could analyze whether her deep breath was one of relief or disappointment, her restless gaze found yet another old friend.
Her eyes widened. “Good grief!”
The Earl of Braithwaite stood up from the hazard table and grinned as she approached. “My lord!” she exclaimed.
“Miss Muir,” he returned mockingly, as he took her outstretched hand. “You’ll be telling me next what an honor it is to receive me.”
“Well, I suppose it is that, too,” she admitted. “But mostly it’s a surprise. How long have you been home?”
“Just a day or so.” His smile faded and he squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I was so sorry to hear about Captain Muir.”
Over the few months since her father’s death, she’d learned to deal with the frequent lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
“You’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do?”
“Of course, but truly we are managing. Thank you.”
Relief tinged his face as he changed the subject. “I hope you’re coming to this wretched ball tomorrow evening.”
“Wretched?” she repeated in mock outrage. “Wretched? My dear, sir, the entire county has been looking forward to it for weeks.”
“How so when my mother has been so eclipsed as Blackhaven’s most notable hostess? All we hear about now are Miss Muir’s card parties.”
“Quiet and select gatherings, my lord,” she said primly, although she allowed her eyes to dance. “Nothing on Lady Braithwaite’s scale!”
She passed on between the tables and into the smaller salon where the deeper gaming tended to take place, and where they served smuggled brandy and fine wine instead of tea. She assured herself she was checking to see there were enough refreshments available, that observing the stranger was merely a secondary chore. When she had a moment, she should ask Bernard who he was. He didn’t look like the sort of man who came to Blackhaven for the beneficial water. He looked to be, in fact, one of the healthiest and strongest people she had ever encountered. Although he could well be accompanying a sickly parent or friend…or wife.
In the smaller room, she was greeted by her brother Bernard and several jovial young men at the faro table.
“A little more brandy here, since you’re passing, Gillie,” Bernard requested.
As she walked toward the sideboard where the decanters sat, she become aware of the tall, dark figure who stood in front of them, pouring brandy into a glass. For no reason she could account for, her heart seemed to flutter.
He actually turned and bowed to her with perfect civility, although if she were being critical, it was more of an inclination of the head. “May I pour you a glass of brandy?”
The deep, modulated voice sent shivers down her spine. The man had a most peculiar effect upon her.
“Thank you,” she managed lightly. “But I was just going to leave them an entire decanter and let them pour as they will.”
One sloping eyebrow lifted. “Leave whom with an entire decanter?”
She waved one hand toward Bernard’s table of players. “My brother and his friends.”
“I have no intention of serving them,” her stranger said with distaste. “My offer was to you.”
She smiled involuntarily. “I don’t drink brandy, sir!”
His eyes dropped to her lips. “You should when it’s as good as this.” A glass was thrust toward her and she was just bemused enough to take it. “Miss Muir, I apprehend.”
“Yes, but you have the advantage. I don’t believe I know you, and I usually remember everyone.”
“We’ve never met,” he acknowledged. “I’m afraid I came with Braithwaite.”
“Oh,” she said, relieved that he wasn’t simply some stranger who’d turned up uninvited and would have to be asked to leave, by Danny if necessary. “Then you are most welcome!”
“I thought I might be,” he murmured. “Tell me, was that young Kit Grantham I saw you with in the other room?”
“Yes indeed. That is, I did speak to him. Do you know Kit?”
“Not in the slightest. I’m acquainted with his mother.”
“Let me introduce you,” she said at once, forgetting she didn’t actually know the stranger’s name as yet in her determination to be an excellent hostess.
“On no account,” the stranger said at once, “would I willingly exchange your company for his.”
She cast him a quick glance, uncertain if he were mocking her.
He sipped his brandy. “I was merely trying to establish if he were the kind of hotheaded young officer to call me out for monopolizing your company.”
She laughed. “Kit? He’s far too good-natured to qu
arrel over trivia.”
The devil’s eyebrow rose again. “You regard yourself as trivial, Miss Muir? I must disagree.”
“Well it’s very kind of you to say so,” she said, amused. “I suppose I just mean that we’ve known each other forever and he has no interest in who speaks to me.” She considered. “Unless you were a villain of some kind,” she added in the interest of honesty. “Which I doubt you are!”
“Opinions vary,” the stranger said sardonically. “Shall we sit here?” He moved, ushering her toward the little alcove where two armchairs were set in the window.
Since it was her part of this enterprise to make guests comfortable, she made no demur. She only hoped he couldn’t hear the strangely quickened beat of her heart. Something about him intrigued her.
“Hoi, Gillie! The brandy!” Bernard called after her.
The stranger paused, his hand on the alcove curtain, and glanced over his shoulder. “Shift for yourself,” he advised, and let the curtain fall.
Gillie couldn’t prevent the gurgle of laughter escaping her throat. “Oh dear, I am a poor hostess!”
“Not in the slightest, you are entertaining me.”
“Am I?” she said lightly, concerned that the curtain was drawn, isolating their alcove, although she imagined it was an accident on his part. Unobtrusively, she tweaked the curtain back. “Then at the very least, you should tell me your name.”
“Keith. David Keith.” He clinked glasses with her, a rather charmingly casual gesture, and held one of the chairs for her to sit. “What sort of a name is Gillie?”
She wrinkled her nose as she sat down. “Short for Gillyflower. I’ve insisted on Gillie since I could talk.”
“Why? I rather like Gillyflower. It suits you.”
She laughed. “No, it doesn’t! There is nothing flower-like about me!”
A faint smile of response lingered on his lips, but as though he’d forgotten about it. He gazed at her without blinking.
Disconcerted, she blurted, “I saw you earlier, in the doorway. You looked…bored.”
“I was until I saw you.”
She flushed, covering her unaccustomed gaucheness by nervously rearranging her skirts. “Then you don’t care for cards?”
The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8) Page 23
