by Hatch, Donna
“Bow Street Runners are doing much for the safety of London,” Uncle Andrew protested.
Cole nodded. “Because they’re as ruthless as the criminals they fight.”
Aunt Livy fanned herself. “Certainly not a fitting occupation for the son of an earl.”
Uncle Andrew would not be deterred. “Well, no, however, he’s not actually a Runner; he only assists them when they have a particularly interesting case. And the Runners are honorable men dedicated to protecting the public. I can understand why Grant likes them.”
“I suppose there’s a shred of honor in Grant’s black heart,” Cole conceded. “In his own twisted way, he’s trying to contribute. However, I still think he should have been a Magistrate if he wanted to uphold the law.”
“Every family needs a black sheep, I suppose. Only yours has two. A thief-taker and a pirate … and an heir resistant to do his duty.” Aunt Livy made a tsking sound. “Why is it that Christian is the only member of the family willing to do as he ought?”
“The ‘perfectly perfect Christian,’ ” Cole said in the same sing-song voice with which they’d taunted the youngest Amesbury brother all his life.
Aunt Livy waggled her closed fan at Cole. “Don’t think you can get away with changing the subject, you naughty boy.”
“Not I. You brought up the subject of Christian.” How did Aunt Livy always manage to make him feel like a six-year old?
Uncle Andrew smirked. “Perhaps I should go buy Miss Palmer for you, Cole. You could get the whole marrying business over with, produce an heir, and then set her up in the country where you can ignore her if you wish. It would save her from all those other unsavory characters. And better yet, it would silence your aunt. I’ve been trying for thirty-seven years and am starting to believe it cannot be done.”
Aunt Livy whacked his arm smartly with her fan.
“I don’t need your money, Uncle. I certainly have the means to pay off her family myself, if I were so inclined.” Cole realized that they both watched him too carefully. He quickly arranged an uninterested expression on his face and brushed an imaginary spec off his sleeve.
“Ahh.” Uncle Andrew exchanged meaningful looks with Aunt Livy whose triumphant smile grew in direct proportion to Cole’s attempt at appearing bored.
“It’s not what you think.” He knew with growing alarm that nothing he could say now would dissuade them from believing what they wished. “Stay out of this,” he snapped.
Uncle Andrew cleared his throat. “Cole, there’s nothing wrong with developing feelings for a young lady.”
“I have no feelings. Not for her. Not for anyone. And I’ll thank you to not bring it up again.” He felt like a petulant child trying to profess his innocence. “Perhaps I’ve stayed too long. I hear Italy is lovely this time of year.”
Aunt Livy leaned across to pat his arm and he had to force himself to not yank back out of her reach. “Don’t go yet, dear. I vow I will respect your privacy.”
“Why start now?” he snarled.
“Because I can see that you are quite vexed by it. You both may consider me silenced.” She pressed her fingers over her mouth and glanced at Uncle Andrew. “In this matter, at least.”
Andrew grinned and kissed her gloved fingers. Their expressions for one another betrayed their obvious affection, despite their banter. They loved each other, despite the years and accompanying illnesses and injuries, and their strong personalities. Or perhaps because of them.
That Cole might have such a comfortable relationship with another seemed a tantalizing dream.
CHAPTER 8
Cole parried the thrust of his opponent’s rapier and drove one in of his own.
“Touché.”
Grinning, Cole lowered his weapon and held out a hand to his fencing partner. The duke shook it before they removed their protective coverings and handed their rapiers and gear to the servants.
“Well done, Amesbury,” the other man praised.
Beads of perspiration ran down Cole’s face and back. “And to you, Your Grace. You execute your moves flawlessly.”
Fencing always proved an interesting diversion. Submersing himself in technique and strategy restored a sense of balance to his world.
“Next time you have the urge to fence, send me word. I enjoy a challenging opponent. So many are unable to offer any real sport,” the duke said.
“I shall, Your Grace. Thank you.” Cole toweled off his face.
Over the course of the week-long house party, the duke had proven himself remarkably gracious. A dignified gentleman, the duke was an attentive and generous host.
Too bad Miss Sinclair and her family were also invited to the same house party. Cole had grown weary of her scheming.
“Your Grace.” A servant ran into the room.
The Duke gave a sardonic smile. “Duties, it appears, Amesbury.”
Cole grinned. “Thank you again for the excellent match.” They shook hands again and Cole went back to his room to bathe and change.
“Are you enjoying yourself, sir?” His valet, Stephens, sent him a wry smile.
Stephens was far too outspoken and opinionated, but Cole viewed him as a friend first and a servant second. A former comrade-at-arms, they had saved each other’s lives many times. And Stephens proved his loyalty repeatedly when Cole found himself dodging eager debutantes or their overzealous mothers. Or when he wished to arrange a discreet liaison.
Cole grimaced. “Outside of the hunting and fencing matches—the only diversions I truly enjoyed—the week has been filled with games of all kinds and women with matrimony on their minds. Aunt Livy probably helped plan the menu, commonly known as the guest list. I’m surprised they didn’t serve me to the ladies on a platter sautéed in butter.”
Stephens chuckled. “Miss Catherine Sinclair would have been the first to take a serving.”
“No doubt. Although she did prove herself a worthy partner in whist. Her ability to bluff won us many rounds last evening.” Few women had perfected the art of keeping her face as impassive as Miss Sinclair. “Overall, however, the whole party has been an adventure in escapes from feminine wiles.”
“Aye, I can well imagine.”
He’d briefly considered accepting the lovely young widow Norrington’s offer for a liaison last night. Lately, however, nothing filled the emptiness devouring him one bite at a time.
“Thank heavens tomorrow the party will come to a close and we can escape back to the relative safety of Uncle Andrew’s estate,” Cole added.
After bathing and changing, and receiving a fortifying grin from Stephens, Cole went downstairs for the next round. Dinner passed as smoothly as could be hoped, but he still welcomed the after-dinner ritual to enjoy port or brandy and manly conversation, sans the ladies.
Cole nursed his brandy outside the circle of men. He had his own opinions but kept them to himself tonight. Anytime Members of Parliament or of the House of Lords began discussing politics, Cole usually kept his ears open and his mouth closed. His father, the fifth Earl of Tarrington, always took his responsibility as a member of the House of Lords seriously and never missed a session until his health began to decline.
When Cole assumed the title of Sixth Earl of Tarrington, he would do his duty faithfully and be a man of whom his father would be proud. It was the least he could do considering how he’d disappointed his father in his youth.
The conversation drifted from one topic to another as the glasses drained and refilled and drained. Cole only half- listened without comment, staring into his glass, absently watching the liquid swirl. Then the name Palmer jerked his attention back to the men.
“Willard Palmer can’t make a business deal to save his life these days,” the marquis said.
The duke frowned. “I met him years ago. He seemed a decent sort then.”
“Ever since he inherited his brother’s estate, it’s been bad luck. One loss after another.”
“Too bad. Decent sort,” the duke repeated.
But she was different. Perhaps there lay the key. He had met so many Catherines that he grew weary of their pretenses.
Alicia’s compassion had been refreshing as was her concern for people. He admired her natural ability to include everyone with whom she came in contact, not in a calculating way like Catherine Sinclair, but in a way that made them feel important, as if she truly believed they were. Cole had witnessed Mr. de Champs’ chest swell his pleasure in her attentive company at Lord and Lady Sinclair’s ball. She had done the same with every man with whom she spoke, looking at them as if they were the only person in the room, asking in her soft tones about their families and their lives, as if she truly cared. After only moments in her presence, each man, young or old, all walked taller.
Her expressions revealed her true feelings when she thought no one watched; her hurt when Catherine and her parents scorned her, her amused disapproval at Catherine’s flirtatiousness, her alarm when she could not remember a name right away, her sweet pleasure when others remembered her. She’d been compassionate to Catherine Sinclair’s friend. Her reaction to the footman dropping a tray of food at the dinner party revealed no anger, no vindication, only concern for the footman’s distress and embarrassment for being the focus of attention. Seeing her thoughts cross her face so plainly had been so entertaining that he wanted to sit down and watch her. Her genuine kindness continued to amaze him.
Cole scowled. Kindness. Bah! When did that become anything but blasé? So she was uncomplicated and wore her heart on display. So what? He did not want to marry for several more years, despite his aunt’s machinations. Surely it would take another decade or so to find a suitable girl. That settled, he squared his shoulders and left the study to find Stephens.
“Oh, Cole, there you are, dear,” said his aunt.
Cole arranged his mouth into a smile. Then when he turned and saw his aunt, his smile turned into a grin. Her turban sat crookedly upon her head.
“We were just discussing you, dear. Come into my room, I need to speak with you.”
Cole grimaced. That never boded well. Perhaps someone convinced her that he’d developed an interest in their daughter. His hopes of escaping faded as he followed her to her room.
She sat at a chair near the fireplace and turned toward him. “May I offer you a drink, dear?”
Cole waved it away. “I already had a brandy downstairs.”
“Now, dear, tell me. What do you think of the duke?”
“I wish I’d met him sooner.”
She leaned back, pleased. “And his sister?”
“The redhead who giggled too much? She’s not someone I had thought of at all, Aunt.”
“Cole! She is our host’s sister. She likes you. Be honest, what do you think of her?”
Since this would surely be a long night, Cole found a comfortable chair. “She is unremarkable.”
Aunt Livy’s face fell. “Oh, that’s too bad. She would be an excellent match, you know. And the duke thinks highly of you. He would probably give his consent.”
He raised his brows. “Are you saying other guardians would not give their consent?”
“One never knows. And you have developed a bit of a reputation, you know.”
“Good. It will scare off any promising matches.”
She pulled off her turban and waved it at him. Her hair stuck out in all directions, making her appear as if she’d suffered a terrible fright. “You are heartless, you know that?”
Cole fought to keep his face straight at the comical sight. “If I ever make the mistake of forgetting, I am sure you will remind me soon enough.”
“Cole, be a good boy and find someone soon. I won’t live forever and I wish to meet your son before I die.”
Cole frowned. “You are only sixty and in excellent health.”
“Then think of your father.”
Cole winced at the reminder of his father’s declining health. “Yes. He had the misfortune of having a son like me and then my brothers. I wouldn’t wish children such as us on any respectable girl.” Cole leaned back with his hands folded behind his head and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.
“Perhaps your heir will be respectable. Not like you. Nor Jared.”
“No, I think Jared makes even me seem a gentleman.”
“Your poor mother,” she lamented.
“Have you ever considered that it might be your influence upon us, Aunt?”
She wagged her finger at him. “Come, now, Cole. My own children turned out all right. And perhaps your children will be more like Christian.”
The “perfectly perfect Christian” should have been the heir to the earldom. He was good, and responsible, and everything Mother longed for in a son. At times, Cole almost hated him, except no one could muster up a true disliking for the youngest Amesbury boy.
He grimaced. “I doubt such goodness is likely to be produced from me.”
“Cooperate with me. Your father asked me to help guide you. Isn’t there anyone here who piques your interest? Catherine Sinclair comes from a good family. She’s quite beautiful.”
“She harbors a stone in her breast she calls a heart.”
Aunt Livy nodded pensively. “She is a bit manipulative, I suppose, but it will take cunning to win you.” She proceeded to list the names and virtues of every girl in attendance at the house party, and everyone who had been at the Sinclair’s ball. Cole’s ears perked when she mentioned Alicia Palmer.
“Now, she is truly a delightful girl. Very closed-mouthed about your first meeting. I think she has mixed feelings about you. Perhaps you could correct whatever went wrong then. Her financial situation is not to her credit, but I think a man of your means can overlook that. I have already asked her to come to tea sometime after our return home.”
However tempting, now would be the worst possible time to ask Aunt Livy about Alicia Palmer; she might mistake his questions for genuine interest and then there would be no stopping her.
He stood up. “I am through discussing this boorish subject. Good night, Aunt.”
“Cole, please, sit down.” Her face and voice both sobered.
Cole complied, but he folded his arms and glared at her. The fire popped and crackled in the grate in the stillness of the night.
“What is wrong with you, dear? If it isn’t a lady, what is it?”
He let his arms slide down to the arms of the chair. Perhaps it was the brandy. Perhaps he was tired of wondering. “Someone mentioned a Palmer boy who had been shot.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward.
“Do you know the details?”
“No. I am not close to the family. Why? What’s disturbing you?”
He stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Nothing, Aunt, just curious. Good night.”
He closed the door on both his aunt and his curiosity about Alicia Palmer.
CHAPTER 9
Alicia sat in the garden next to her sister, breathing in the aroma of fresh flowers and sunshine and trying to push back her cares for a moment.
“Oh, look at this one.” Hannah inhaled deeply before she carefully snipped a flower. Beaming, she handed it to Alicia. “We’ll have a lovely table arrangement for dinner tonight.”
Sunlight slanted through Hannah’s hair, making it shimmer gold. She had all the fragile beauty of Maman and the same thoughtful, careful ways of Papa. Alicia dredged up a smile, trying to cover her concerns.
The head cook said if she didn’t receive her pay by the end of the month, she’d be forced to give notice, as well. The cook’s assistant had already left. How could they hope to cope without a cook? Of course, Uncle Willard’s creditors had only given them until the end of the month, too. If she didn’t marry by then, a cook would be the least of their concerns.
M
r. Braxton had left the country without making an offer, and Alicia’s relief overshadowed any curiosity of the reason. But Colonel Westin, despite the set-down Lord Amesbury gave him at the races, had agreed to pay Uncle Willard’s debts and provide a respectable dowry for Hannah in exchange for marriage to Alicia and her dowered plot of land bordering his own. No one else could afford her. Or had the desire.
Alicia made a vow to stop running away from her troubles. She would encourage Colonel Westin, and when his offer came, tell him she’d be honored to be his bride. And hope the sick feeling in her stomach would fade in time.
Hoof beats reached her ears. A stunning white horse cantered into view and rode up to the house. Alicia could not clearly see the rider from this distance, but Colonel Westin never rode horseback. Perhaps the visitor sought Robert or Uncle. She turned her attention to Hannah, accepted the next flower, and laid it in her basket with the others.
They spoke of inconsequential matters, enjoying each other’s company while Alicia tried to shake off her melancholy. Alicia admired Hannah’s pretty, serene face and the way the light glimmered off the golden ringlets that framed her face. As Hannah hummed, a chill breeze stirred the trees, blowing in a large, dark cloud, perhaps dark enough to threaten rain. But Alicia refused to spoil Hannah’s contentment by suggesting they return inside merely because of a few clouds. She said nothing.
“Miss Palmer,” a male voice called.
At that moment, the clouds parted and shone down on the most devastatingly handsome man that ever lived. She gaped at Lord Amesbury, undone by the sheer power and masculinity of that man. His long, muscular legs brought his marvelous form toward her in space-devouring strides. Again, the graceful, predatory way he moved reminded her of a great cat. His immaculately tailored clothing included a creamy cravat, rich green frockcoat, striped waistcoat, fawn breeches, and black Hessians. He casually carried his top coat over his arm and his hat in his hand, but there was nothing casual about his purposeful stride. Sunlight shimmered off his dark hair. How could such a heartless man be encased in such beauty!
