My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  “And what’s in the ‘case’ I’ll be delivering?”

  The soldier shrugged. “No need of you knowin’.”

  “Pick up a case—documents, probably—from a government official’s house and carry them clandestinely to Dover,” Teagan mused aloud. “From which port they’ll be smuggled over to France? I’m to be a spy, then?”

  The solder pointed to his empty sleeve. “Done gave me arm for bloody England at Badajoz, and what thanks did I get for it? Me mum was run off the land, me wife and baby starved, and ’tis no one wantin’ to hire a one-armed bloke now. Nor has dear ol’ England smiled on ye neither, eh?”

  What had his mother’s country—or her countrymen—ever done for Teagan? Why should he feel any loyalty to a land whose inhabitants, since the very day of his arrival on English soil, had despised him as Irish and inferior?

  “Well, does ye want the job or no?”

  A few midnight rides. The passing on of a handful of anonymous dispatches that would probably never do anyone any harm. And no one would ever know.

  He would earn enough to stave off his creditors and stay in the city, build up a stake and resume gaming. Remain in London, where he could devise some way to outflank Lady Farrington and see Valeria Arnold again.

  And grasp some small, satisfying revenge on a society that allowed men like his cousin to flourish, while maimed soldiers and honest Irishmen struggled to survive.

  But even if no one else ever learned of it, Teagan would know. And betrayal, even of a nation to whom he owed no loyalty at all, was still dishonor.

  It would make him no better than the cousin he despised—make him unworthy of the trust Valeria Arnold had so gallantly and mistakenly placed in his character.

  “Tell your ‘gent’ I’m not his man.”

  “Is ye sure of it? ’Tis easy blunt to earn for a bruisin’ rider like yerself. Iffn’ I could ride with this arm, I’d be doin’ it meself.”

  “I’m sure. Now, I’m sorry, but I must be out of London by first light.”

  To his surprise, the soldier smiled once again. “Aye, if ye be set on the straight ’n narrow, I expects ye must.” After giving Teagan a salute with his remaining arm, the soldier melted off into the shadows.

  Teagan turned up his collar against the light rain that had started to fall. Already the dense gloom of night was lightening in the east. He wasn’t sure how far north his coins would carry him, but if he wished to escape at all, he must get himself to that livery stable forthwith.

  A chill rain was spattering the London streets as Lady Winterdale’s luxurious traveling carriage bore Valeria away from Grosvernor Square at dawn. A warm brick at her feet and a thick fur wrap across her lap to keep out the damp and chill, Valeria leaned against the padded squabs and numbly watched the now-familiar streets pass by.

  So driven had she been to leave by morning, she’d instructed Molly to remain in London to assist Mercy in packing the large barouche with the rest of the belongings the housekeeper had informed her Lady Winterdale always carried when she removed to Winterpark. Hanging on to the shreds of her rapidly disintegrating patience, Valeria had then attempted to soothe the butler’s scandalized horror over the fact that she would be traveling without even a maid.

  Her early departure also spared her further meeting with Lady Farrington, who had nearly fallen into another spasm when Valeria stopped by last evening to bid her goodbye. Protesting that Valeria was too distraught to make so important a decision wisely, Lady Farrington begged her not to leave. But determined to slip out of town before the ton—and helpful “friends” like Lady Evelyn and the gentlemen from her shopping excursion—learned of her intent, Valeria refused to delay. Her grandmamma’s final wish was that she remove to Winterpark, and go she would.

  She’d been up late supervising the final packing. But despite her fatigue, after finally reaching the haven of her bed, she’d found sleep eluded her.

  It wasn’t grief, or nervousness about the challenges awaiting her at Winterpark, that kept her from claiming a few hours’ rest before beginning her long and doubtless tiring journey. No, pathetic fool that she was, the watchfulness that had her starting at every small sound, stirring to every servant’s muffled footfall, came from the idiotish hope that James had located Teagan Fitzwilliams and was bringing a reply to her note.

  Of course, the fitful sleep into which she finally fell was not disturbed by any such event. Mr. Fitzwilliams probably hadn’t yet returned to his rooms, if James had indeed managed to locate them. Even had Teagan received her missive, there was no reason to believe he’d feel moved to make immediate reply.

  Such foolish behavior only proved, Valeria concluded, watching the drizzle turn to a steady downpour that obscured everything along the road north behind a damp gray veil, that Grandmamma had once again been wise by suggesting she leave the city—and its proximity to the all-too-fascinating Mr. Fitzwilliams. She badly needed the perspective time and distance could provide.

  The great wealth that would allow her the freedom to choose her future was now hers—but at the cost, she thought with a renewed ache of sadness, of the one whose sagacity might have guided her in that choice.

  What did she want?

  The extremely rich Lady Arnold would be forgiven for claiming the escort of Teagan Fitzwilliams on jaunts about the city. Should she arrive at a ton function on his arm, or invite him to her own, however, she would almost certainly subject him to being snubbed, or worse. The great wealth to which she owed her own acceptance would not be sufficient to purchase his social redemption. In fact, her seeming to take up with him now that she was rich would confirm, rather than rehabilitate, his reputation.

  He would never be thought a respectable suitor, even if he were interested in such a role. ’Twas most unlikely his haphazard youth or his erratic life since leaving Oxford had provided him either experience in or a desire for so permanent a relationship as wedlock. But as a lover…?

  The almost tactile tension that simmered between them whenever they were together suggested he would be quite willing to renew the promise of passion they’d forged in the hay barn. Would an undoubtedly glorious but probably fleeting affair with him be enough?

  And how would one affect her other choices? A fair-minded gentleman like Sir William might tolerate her friendship with a rogue. Hypocritical as it might be, however, though a widowed gentleman might set up a mistress without prejudice to his eventual matrimonial intentions, a matron who took so notorious a lover would likely forfeit any chance of later marrying a man of character. Which would also mean giving up the possibility of an ever-broadening circle of children, friends and grandchildren—that community of kinship and comfort Valeria forfeited when her parents, her brother and now Lady Winterdale died.

  Was a passionate affair, no matter how glorious, worth accepting permanent loneliness for the rest of her life?

  Or would she do better to think seriously of accepting the offer Sir William had all but formally made? He’d been a steady, sympathetic presence all through these days of loss and strain. Never once had he intruded upon her grief, nor had he sought to use his privileged position as a close family friend to further his suit.

  And she knew beyond doubt he was not interested only in her newfound wealth.

  If his kisses, thus far untasted, should not stir in her the intensity of reaction of Teagan Fitzwilliams’, they would at least have the advantage of permanence. And though no instantaneous, visceral attraction drew her to him, she found his tall, well-made figure attractive, and could easily envision progressing from friendship to a more intimate relationship.

  As the miles rolled past in a continued bleak downpour, the same arguments circled around and around until her tired temples ached. Finally, with a burst of anger, she put all such thoughts aside.

  Sir William was ensconced in London, and heaven knew when or if she would ever see Mr. Fitzwilliams again. With increased appreciation for Lady Winterdale’s perspicacity, Valeria vowed to th
row all her energy into mastering her new position as mistress of Winterpark.

  Fatigue finally driving the whirling thoughts from her mind, Valeria was dozing in the early dusk of the rainy late afternoon when the coach jerked to a sudden halt, nearly throwing her off the seat.

  She righted herself and scrambled to the window, but could see nothing through the steady rain but a thick stand of trees. “Wilkins, what is it?” she called out.

  “An oak be blockin’ the road, my lady,” came the reply. “The Crown and Kettle’s not but a few miles ahead. I’ve sent Robert to bring back a lad to help us clear it. Don’t you worrit none, we’ll make the inn afore nightfall.”

  The coachman doffed his cap and walked over to soothe the restive horses. Valeria settled back on her seat, impatient with the delay and already anxious for the warm fire and hot food awaiting them at the inn.

  After a surprisingly short interval, she heard the clatter of approaching hoofbeats. Wilkins appeared by the coach door, his brow creased in a frown.

  “Perhaps we be closer to the inn than I thought, for—”

  The loud report of a pistol drowned out the rest.

  His face a study in dismay, the coachman scrambled for the box. A rough voice shouted, “Reach fer that blunderbuss, laddie, and ye’re a dead man.”

  Wilkins froze.

  “Hands over yer heads, now, nice ’n easy.”

  They were being robbed? Indignation coursed through Valeria, followed by a burst of exasperation. She’d traveled by coach from Bombay to Calcutta with her papa, the pistols he’d taught her to use when she was but twelve years old never far from her hand. But so befuddled had she been while packing last night, she’d neglected to get them from the trunk in which they’d been stored in London.

  While she frantically considered how she might turn any of the commonplace objects within the coach into a weapon, a burly man in a frieze coat, his face obscured by a muffler, appeared beside the vehicle. Pointing a nasty-looking pistol at Wilkins, who quickly raised his hands above his head as ordered, he motioned the coachman aside.

  “I’m gonna open the door slow, little lady. ’Tis a filthy night, so don’t be botherfyin’ Mad Jack aweepin’ or afaintin’. Jest hand out yer baubles, and I’ll be off.”

  In the next instant Valeria heard the report of another pistol, followed by an anguished wail. As she ducked away from the window, a figure hurtled out of the darkness and slammed into the frieze-coated man at knee level, knocking him off balance.

  His pistol discharged skyward as he went down. From her position pressed against the door panel, she heard scuffling, gasps of breath and muffled curses, then the crack of bone against bone.

  Was the newcomer rescuer or accomplice? Had the cry of a man injured come from her coachman—or another attacker?

  Bracing herself in a crouch, hands gripping the only weapon she could devise, Valeria waited.

  A second later, the coach door was thrown open to frame a mud-spattered man, his thick hair dripping rain. “Are you unhurt, ma’am?” he asked.

  Valeria stared into familiar golden eyes whose expression of concern turned to a shock as keen as her own. Her grip slackened on the brick she’d been about to heave.

  “Teagan?” she gasped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  W ilkins appeared behind Teagan before he could answer. “Cor, didn’t recognize ye at first, Mr. Fitzwilliams! Thank the lord ye happened upon us when ye did!”

  “You are unharmed, Lady Arnold?” When Valeria nodded, Teagan turned back to the coachman. “’Tis thankful I am as well, Wilkins! Help me immobilize this brigand before he can attempt any more mischief.”

  As she watched the two men begin to secure the robber with a bit of rope Wilkins produced, Valeria felt suddenly dizzy. With more speed than grace, she sat back on the padded seat. “Allow me to offer my own thanks for your timely intervention, Mr. Fitzwilliams,” she called down.

  Occupied in knotting ropes about the wrists of her still-unconscious attacker, Teagan nodded. “’Twas my privilege, Lady Arnold.”

  Her other groom trotted up. “Splendid shot, sir! Winged through the shoulder the one what was guardin’ me, and sent the bastard bleating back into the woods—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he finished, flush-faced.

  “I disremember ever seein’ a move like how ye took this bounder off his feet, neither,” Wilkins chimed in. “A right pretty hook ye dealt ’im!”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. The streets sometimes prove a more useful training ground than Gentleman Jackson’s. Harness our ‘guest’ to the back of the coach, please.”

  While the two servants dragged off the robber, Teagan turned back to Valeria. His eyes widened, and with a wry smile, he extracted from her unresisting fingers the warming brick she still held. “A bit crude, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps, but ’twas the best I could contrive, considering I was too totty-headed to bring my pistols.”

  “Quite enterprising! But since you are safe, let me leave you and help these fellows get your coach underway. Wrap back up, now, before you catch a chill.”

  He lifted one hand, his eyes warming, and for a moment Valeria thought he meant to touch her cheek. But abruptly the glow faded and he backed away.

  “Mr. Fitzwilliams!” she called after him. “When you have finished, please rejoin me! I should like to hear your account of the attack.”

  Another shouted “halloo” told her Robert must have returned from the inn. Pulling the fur wrap up to her chin against the damp, Valeria settled back on her seat. Her mind busy with speculation, she scarcely heard the distant murmur of voices as the men moved the obstructing tree.

  How had Teagan Fitzwilliams ended up on the Great North Road? She’d had no indication he meant to leave London. Of course, she’d not seen him for over a week.

  Had he received her note before his departure? Surely…surely he hadn’t been following her!

  She immediately dismissed so ridiculous a notion. But why had he left, and by what means? She’d seen no horse.

  Impatient to learn more, she had to clench her hands in her muff to keep herself from climbing out to check the coachmen’s progress. Finally, as the gray afternoon dissolved into black, Mr. Fitzwilliams returned.

  “You’re now ready to proceed. I’m honored to have been of service.” He made her a bow.

  Surely he didn’t mean to simply…leave! “Please ride with me, Mr. Fitzwilliams. You’ve not yet relieved my curiosity about the attack and how you came upon it.”

  For a moment she thought he’d refuse. Then, with a short laugh, he shook his head. “Sure, and any other lady would have fallen into palpitations. Whereas you, Lady Arnold, likely wish to know the make of the pistol the brigand used and just where I wounded his accomplice.”

  She smiled back. “And how you managed it. Please, do ride with me at least as far as the inn.”

  He eyed the padded seat dubiously. “’Tis soaked through I be, and muddy besides.”

  Which meant he must also be chilled to the bone, she realized. He ought to be out of the rain. “My dear sir, had you not fortuitously happened upon us, I would have lost my jewels and my purse, if not much more! I believe I can forgive your leaving a bit of damp in my coach.” She patted the seat beside her. “Please.”

  Still he hesitated. “How could I refuse so gracious a lady?” he said at last.

  The words, the smile were as they should be, but the timing and tone of them, the odd hesitations in his speech ever since she’d recognized him, sent a message of alarm to all Valeria’s senses. Something was not right with Teagan Fitzwilliams, something beyond the odd coincidence of so unexpectedly encountering him on the road.

  As he eased himself into the coach, Valeria noted that under his sodden cloak, he still wore evening dress. She’d lit the coach’s lamps while the men moved the tree, and in their light she could see his mud-spattered face was un-shaved, his eyes red rimmed, as if he’d not slept in many hours. It appeared he had lef
t London this morning without even having changed his clothes.

  He sank back against the squabs and closed his eyes. An air of strained exhaustion surrounded him, as if he had reached the very limits of his physical and mental reserves. She did not think his intervention in the robbery could be the sole reason for it.

  What had happened? She opened her lips to ask, then closed them. Tread cautiously, instinct told her.

  “Since we can now be private, I shall avail myself of your first name, as we did in London. How did you come to be in this vicinity, Teagan? I did not see your horse.”

  He opened his eyes. “The animal pulled up lame some miles back, I’m afraid. I was leading him when I heard the first pistol shot.”

  She noted he did not answer her first question. “Not your fine stallion, I hope!”

  “No, I—” He stopped abruptly, and some fleeting emotion passed over his face before he continued. “I left Ailainn back in London. ’Twas a job horse, poor beast.”

  “You heard the shot, and then…?”

  “Grabbed my pistol and crept to the clearing. Downing a tree to block the road is an old robber’s trick. Seeing there were but two of them, and the coach door not yet opened, I knew ’twould be safe for me to…interrupt.”

  “Safe to—” She gasped. “You might have been killed!”

  He shook his head. “With the weather so foul, they weren’t expecting outside aid, and I was able to approach quite close. Clipping the accomplice was mere target practice, and once I knocked down the brigand at the coach door, I knew with your groom and coachman, it would be three of us against their two.”

  “I think you’re incredibly brave. Most men would have kept to the shadows and hoped to remain unnoticed.”

  At her fervent tone, he seemed almost to…wince. “I’m no hero, Valeria,” he said quietly.

  Once more the feeling invaded her that something awful had occurred, and once more she had to restrain herself from asking what. “You have certainly shown yourself one to me. You are…traveling north?”