Wiping her hands on a big white apron worn over her gown of brown wool grogram, Mrs. Gilbert walked over to their table. After giving Luc a thorough appraisal, she said, “I see that the ... fall from your horse left you with no ill effects.”
Luc grinned. “It was my pride that was most injured.” He shook his head. “I cannot remember the last time a horse has gotten the better of me and sent me flying like that. It must have been bad luck.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” she answered. Her gaze slid to Lamb. “There seems to be a bit of bad luck going around. Gossip has it that Nolles slipped on his way home the very next night and split open his face... . I’ve heard that it looks more like someone took a knife to him than a cut from a fall.” When Lamb’s expression remained politely interested, after a hard look at him, she added, “He’s healing, but they say he’ll have a scar.”
Luc’s eyes narrowed and fastened on Lamb’s face. “Is that a fact,” he muttered.
“Indeed, it is, but of course, neither one of you would know anything about it, now would you?”
“Mais non! How could I?” asked Luc, his gaze still fixed on Lamb. “I was in my bed barely able to move a muscle.”
“And I,” murmured Lamb, “never left his side.”
Mrs. Gilbert looked from one face to the other. She snorted and retorted, “And you can both go teach your granny to suck eggs.”
Lamb grinned at her. “As if I would dare.”
She half laughed. “Very well. Keep it to yourselves. Now what will you have?”
Twenty minutes later, Luc and Lamb exited the inn and mounted their horses. The moment The Crown disappeared from view, his face grim, Luc looked at Lamb and inquired icily, “You or Barnaby? And don’t try to tell me that one of you didn’t go after Nolles.”
“I did,” Lamb admitted with no sign of contrition. He glanced at Luc. “It had to be done, and you were in no condition to teach anyone a lesson.”
“Did Barnaby know?”
Lamb looked askance. “The Viscount Joslyn? Now what do you think?”
“You had no right!” Luc exploded. “I was the one attacked. I don’t need anyone—especially you—to fight my battles. I would have handled Nolles all in good time.”
Lamb jerked his horse to a halt and glared at Luc, who had done the same. “A lesson,” Lamb said from between gritted teeth, “is better learned if punishment is administered as soon after the offense as possible. There is nothing to stop you from going after Nolles yourself now that you are healed, but he needed to learn that no one strikes at a Joslyn without swift and, I must add, painful retaliation.”
Since their attitudes were the same in this instance, Luc throttled back his anger. “It seems we both disagreed with Barnaby this time,” he growled, nudging his horse forward again.
Barnaby arrived home from London Wednesday evening, and on Friday morning he heard of Nolles’s accident from Lord Broadfoot, who had come to call. Broadfoot was barely out the door before Barnaby requested Lamb’s presence in his office. Once Lamb arrived and shut the door behind him, his face grim, Barnaby said, “I thought we decided to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said, staring hard at Lamb.
Taking a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of Barnaby’s massive oak desk, Lamb shrugged. “You decided. I didn’t.”
“Damn it, Lamb! Do you think it wasn’t difficult for me to stomach what Nolles did to Luc?” Barnaby demanded, the black eyes glittering. “I wanted to kill the bastard!” He sucked in a deep breath, struggling against rage. “And while you may have gained some satisfaction from your actions,” he said in a calmer tone, “we’re all going to have to suffer the consequences.” He leaned forward, his expression intent. “You’ve made Nolles doubly dangerous to us. If he wanted revenge before, he’ll be foaming at the mouth for it now.”
Lamb looked up from his contemplation of his boots. “Better we kill him sooner than later.”
Barnaby laughed without humor. “Oh, I don’t disagree. But I balk at cold-blooded murder.”
“But hot-blooded slaughter is acceptable?” Lamb asked with a cocked brow.
Barnaby pointed a warning finger at him. “You know precisely what I mean.”
Lamb sighed. “Luc wasn’t very happy with me either.”
“Only because he’d prefer to teach Nolles a lesson in his own way,” Barnaby grumbled, throwing himself down into the chair behind the desk.
Lamb rose to his feet. “Yes, I’m sure he would ... and I’m sure he will eventually find a way to get his own back. Luc is very good at that. Now is there anything else you need from me?”
Barnaby waved a dismissing hand in his direction. “No. Go annoy someone else.”
Both Barnaby and Lamb were correct about Luc. Luc would get his own back from Nolles, and during the time he’d been forced to remain cloistered at the Dower House, that topic had occupied his mind quite a bit ... as had the delectable Mrs. Gillian Dashwood. Gillian’s sweet form had drifted through his dreams and most nights he awakened with his member hard and throbbing and ready to explode—a situation he’d not suffered since he’d been a green youth. There had been the occasional woman he’d bedded while in London, but that had been months ago and he blamed celibacy for his persistent arousal.
Now that he was back to his normal self, he intended to rid himself of both problems. Lying in bed that Friday night, he considered the problems Nolles and Gillian represented and how best to solve them. Neither one was suitable for a straightforward solution, he admitted with a rueful twist to his lips. Gillian was no eager actress or daring widow willing to be bedded at the first opportunity. Widow Gillian might—and the most likely culprit for having murdered her husband—but he doubted she would fall into bed with him. Or would she?
The memory of that embrace in the garden of High Tower burst across his mind, and to his irritation, desire rolled through him. In an instant his staff was swollen and ready between his legs, and knowing sleep was impossible, he swore and, naked, swung out of bed.
Shrugging into the robe lain across a nearby chair, he lit the candle in the brass holder kept on a small table next to his bed and, carrying it, walked into the sitting room attached to his bedchamber. Crossing to the tray of liquors on an oak sideboard, he set down the brass holder and splashed some brandy into a snifter. Not taking time to enjoy the bouquet, he tossed the liquor down.
After pouring more brandy into his snifter, he wandered moodily around the room. It wasn’t like him to be so preoccupied with a woman. But Gillian Dashwood was like no other woman he’d ever met. Irritably he admitted she attracted him in a way he’d never experienced. He wanted her, but he’d wanted other women, many women in his life, but not quite the way he wanted Gillian Dashwood. He couldn’t explain how his emotions were different with her, and that worried him.
Snifter in hand, he prowled the room, turning the problem over in his mind. Her reputation, the fact that it was believed, but not proven, he reminded himself, that she had murdered her husband, added a cachet of danger to any affair with her. Ruefully he acknowledged his own predilection toward dangerous situations. But danger aside, she was also lovely. Desirable ... and she didn’t approve of him... . But then he didn’t exactly approve of her either. He wanted her, though, and despite her reputation and her relationship to Silas, he was certain he’d have her. That kiss in the garden told him as much. But when and where, he wondered.
She was no ladybird to be satisfied with a romp in one of the rooms in the nearest tavern... . He glanced around the sitting room bathed in the feeble light of the lone candle and grimaced. Bringing her here was out of the question, and the notion of bedding her in Silas’s own house simply wasn’t to be considered. Now if the weather was warmer, he could arrange a private picnic in a secluded place... . Imagining Gillian lying naked on a quilt, her eyes drowsy with desire and her generous breasts and hips dappled by the shade of tree, predictably he was again hot, hard and cursing.
Mon Dieu! He had to stop t
orturing himself this way. But the lack of any comfortable, discreet place where he could bed Gillian reminded him of a problem he’d put off thinking about these past days: the need to have his own residence and privacy. Tomorrow, he decided. He’d miss having Barnaby, Emily, Cornelia and even Lamb nearby, but even if Gillian was not an issue, it was time—past time—that he stepped away from the haven Barnaby had provided for him.
The prospect of his own home was a novel one for Luc. Though he’d lived at the château of his French relatives from birth until he’d been twelve and had lived at Green Hill for nearly as many years, he’d never felt that either place had been home. He’d been grateful for Barnaby’s offer of the Dower House, but it certainly wasn’t home. Now that he’d paid Barnaby back with interest the loan Barnaby had given him several months ago and had money invested in the funds, he was in a position to buy his own residence.
He half-smiled. Luc Joslyn, gambler-at-large, property owner—the idea was ludicrous. That he’d settle in England had never crossed his mind. He’d always assumed, at some point in his life, he’d either return to Virginia or would set down roots in France. The recent events in France had removed that option, and while returning to Virginia to live, perhaps not at Green Hill, but someplace nearby was still viable, he doubted, except for a visit, that he’d return to America. Barnaby’s inheritance of the title and Windmere had changed the course of all their lives. With Barnaby and Lamb fixed at Windmere, the notion of living in the area held great appeal.
The day would come when Lamb tired of playing Barnaby’s manservant, but Luc couldn’t conceive of Lamb living far from Barnaby. Lamb would always be nearby. Emotion unexpectedly welled up inside him. Lamb will always be near for both Barnaby and me, he conceded, acknowledging for the first time that aggravating as his uncle could be, Lamb kept a watchful eye over both the Joslyn half brothers. Damn him!
He sipped his brandy. In the interest of making Lamb’s task easier, he thought cynically, it was probably fortunate that he’d be living in the area.
Feeling that until he had found a residence of his own, he could do nothing to ease the desire Gillian aroused within him, he put that problem aside for the time being. Telling Barnaby of his decision to start casting about for a suitable place to buy was a step toward solving the entwined problem of Gillian and a place for dalliance, and so for now he could put that problem aside also. His features grim, he considered the problem of Nolles ... and Townsend.
Luc was convinced that the attack on him originated with Townsend’s gaming losses at his hands. If, as was suspected, Nolles was underwriting Townsend’s gaming, then both men had a reason to resent what had happened that night with Harlan. His lips curled. Townsend was too cowardly to take action against him, but Nolles ... Nolles was a different story entirely. Nolles didn’t like losing—anything—and violence was his second nature. Luc’s hand tightened around his snifter. Giving him a vicious thrashing was exactly the sort of action Nolles would take against someone who had cost him money, and for Nolles there was the added incentive of gouging a finger into Barnaby’s eye.
Thoughtfully, Luc wandered around the shadowy room, aided by the flickering light of the lone candle on the sideboard. So how, he wondered, did he handle Nolles? And Townsend?
Townsend, he decided, would be the easiest, and he knew just the method. Gambling. The squire was a decent gambler, but he wasn’t Lucifer, and Luc knew he could ruin him in an evening if he chose. But did he want to? Emily’s face floated in front of him and he winced. Townsend was her cousin, and though she loathed the man, how would she feel if her cousin were booted out onto the street with the clothes he wore on his back his only possessions? Luc made a face. Odds were she’d not turn a hair, applaud his actions in fact, but he didn’t want to take the chance that his actions might bring her pain. No, for Emily’s sake, he couldn’t leave the man penniless, but he could take the squire closer to the brink of ruin... .
Which would, he decided with a satisfied expression, enrage Nolles—especially since, if gossip was correct, the majority of the money Townsend was risking belonged to Nolles. Luc paused in his meandering about the room. Infuriating Nolles would be simple, but having achieved that goal, what did he do next? It would depend, he concluded, on how Nolles reacted to Townsend’s losses... .
Nolles was capable of murder, and he had any number of men who would cheerfully dispatch a problem for him. Luc stared at the drop of amber liquid remaining in his snifter. I’d do well, he told himself, to remember that fact.
But thinking back to the night he was attacked brought something sharply in focus for him. Nolles and his men had been waiting for him ... they’d known he would be riding home from High Tower... .
He frowned. His dinner at High Tower hadn’t been a secret, any number of people had known about it, but how had that news come to Nolles’s ear? It was unlikely that his acceptance to dine at High Tower would have been passed on to Nolles by the three or four people at Windmere who had known of his plans for that Friday night. While it was possible that one of the High Tower servants had mentioned the dinner while at Nolles’s inn, Luc didn’t think that was what happened.
A fragment of the conversation with Mrs. Gilbert came back to him ... something about Stanley Ordway and Lord George Canfield being seen with Nolles and Townsend... . Luc’s eyes narrowed. Either one of those two men was the most likely source, but had there been an innocent transference of information during conversation or something more sinister?
Shaking his head, he walked toward the oak sideboard. He could think of no reason why Stanley would want him beaten, but Canfield ... Canfield didn’t like him, but was that dislike strong enough to have him ask Nolles to attack him? And why would Nolles do such a thing for someone he’d just met?
Stopping in front of the sideboard, Luc snorted. Nolles would have leaped at the opportunity to strike at him without any request or prompting from anyone. Setting down the snifter, he headed for his bed. Either Ordway or Canfield had passed on the information, but he had to believe that it had been an innocent act—not some nefarious scheme. But for the time being, he thought, as he climbed into bed, I will take care around both men.
Determined to begin his search for suitable living quarters, the next morning Luc met with Barnaby in his office. Barnaby was behind his desk, Luc taking the leather chair Lamb had occupied the day before.
After Luc explained why he had come to call, there was a brief silence, Barnaby sitting with his fingers steepled in front of him. After a moment, he looked over at Luc and asked, “You’re certain this is what you want to do? Buy some property of your own?”
Luc spread his hands deprecatingly. “I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me since I arrived half-dead in England, but don’t you think it’s time I stepped out from behind your shadow?”
“Damn it, Luc! You have nothing to thank me for,” Barnaby growled. “If our father had been a fairer man, we would have shared in his estate, and if you weren’t so stiff-necked, you’d have allowed me to split Green Hill with you as I wanted to do. The money I lent you was as good as your own.” He sighed. “You and Lamb! Both of you as bullheaded a pair as I’ve ever come across.”
“Lamb and I have created quite a dilemma for you, haven’t we?” Luc asked, sympathetic, yet amused.
“Yes, you have.” Barnaby eyed his older half brother wearily. “How do you think it makes me feel to have been blessed with great fortune, yet the two men I hold dearest to me ... the two men who have as much right to that same fortune, refuse to allow me to share with them?” His black eyes bleak, he asked in a low tone, “How would you feel if our positions were reversed? Would you be happy knowing that your brother and your uncle had been denied even a portion of their birthright while all of it came to you?” Barnaby’s fist hit the desk with frustration. “You both were raised as Joslyns. You are Joslyns, yet the pair of you allows pride to stand in the way of what is rightfully yours. Lamb plays at being my manserva
nt and you pretend to be a heartless gambler yet nothing is further from the truth. I cannot,” he said heavily, “undo what our father did to you or Lamb, but every time you refuse my offer of help you burden me with the guilt of his doing.”
Taken aback by the misery in Barnaby’s voice, Luc stared dumbstruck at him. If positions were reversed ... He swallowed with difficulty, aware for the first time of how his refusals wounded his brother. Unable to stare at Barnaby’s unhappy face, his gaze dropped. He’d never once thought of Barnaby’s feelings; he’d been so involved in flaunting his pride like a priceless golden cloak that the consequences to Barnaby every time he tossed Barnaby’s offers back into his face hadn’t ever been considered. Mon Dieu! What an arrogant, selfish swine I’ve been.
“Forgive me,” begged Luc, his azure eyes full of regret as his gaze met Barnaby’s. “I would never willingly cause you pain and I never meant to hurt you—in any fashion.”
Barnaby ran a hand through his black hair. “I know that.” He half smiled. “You’re a thoughtless bastard, but not a cruel one.”
Luc grimaced. “Thank you.” He fidgeted in the chair. Reluctantly, he said, “How do you propose we solve this dilemma?”
From under his brows Barnaby regarded him. “Are you serious?”
Luc nodded. “At the moment, yes.” He made a face. “Allow me time to think about it and I may change my mind. When it is the only thing you feel you have, pride is a hard thing to discard—even if only for your brother.”
Barnaby hesitated, then reached into his desk drawer and removed some papers. He cleared his throat. “There is a small estate, Ramstone Manor, on the eastern edge of the Windmere lands, that came into my hands when I inherited the title. Our great-uncle, the previous viscount, had lent the owner, a Mr. Benton Coulson, a substantial sum of money several years ago that was never repaid. Coulson died without heirs last summer, and the estate, over five hundred acres, which includes a half dozen or so farms, became mine when I took the title.” Barnaby pushed the papers toward Luc. “Lord knows that Windmere doesn’t need to expand, although I did think about keeping the place for a younger son, but that’s decades in the future—if I am fortunate to have more than one son. In the meantime, I’m merely a caretaker of the place.” He smiled. “I could sell it, but I’d much prefer you as a neighbor than some stranger.”
Desire Becomes Her Page 14
