The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (Uncommon Courtships Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  He must have pulled his watch from the pocket of his vest for she heard the click of the cover opening. “A few more minutes yet. Listen, you can still hear the bookmakers calling for wagers.”

  Outside the noise was indeed mounting. Friends called encouragement to each other, bookmakers shouted odds given, and vendors hawked their wares. A dirty-faced lad ran by with a fist full of almonds, and some industrious soul had brought a keg of ale on a wagon and was selling drafts for a penny a pint.

  “Sounds as if the Bull’s the favorite,” Leslie commented. “Pity. I put my money on the fellow from Seven Dials, Jabberton.”

  She smiled at him. “Do you always favor the odd-man out?”

  He returned her smile with a good-natured shrug. “Seems to be my lot in life. Would you like to make a wager?”

  “Oh, Leslie, that would be famous!” No sooner had she said the words than she realized she could do no such thing. “Or, perhaps not. I lost all my money playing silverloo, and I won’t see any allowance from Mr. Carlisle until next month.”

  Leslie spread his hands. “I would be happy to advance you the blunt, Sprout.”

  “Done!” she declared. “A quid on the fellow from Seven Dials. Industrious gentlemen should be encouraged.”

  Leslie grinned, reaching up to tap on the panel above his head. When the face of his coachman appeared, he tossed up a coin. “A quid for Jabberton, Jack. From the lady.”

  “Right-to, m’ lord,” he barked with a grin. “And if I may be so bold, tell the lady I’m only too happy to take her money, for mine’s on the Bull.”

  Cleo laughed as the panel snapped shut.

  Her amusement, however, quickly evaporated as the fighters failed to appear. By the lengthy conversation going on between several gentlemen near the center of the circle, she could only conclude that something had gone wrong. The crowd only shouted the louder for the match to begin.

  “What’s happened?” she asked Leslie.

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell. The magistrates frown on these matches, at least in public. Perhaps there’s been a change in venue to keep all parties happy. Those gentlemen,” he pointed to the ones arguing in the center of the ring, “are the seconds for the fighters. I have yet to see either the Bull or the Giant in the throng. Neither do I see Lord Prestwick. We may have come for no purpose, Sprout.”

  She frowned. “I shall be highly disappointed, if that is the case. It isn’t likely I’ll get a chance to see a fight again soon.”

  “One never knows,” Leslie replied mysteriously. Before she could question him, however, he continued. “The most interesting thing about any London social event, even boxing, is the people who turn out for it. For example, look at that beefy fellow on the right of the circle.”

  Although any number of the people outside the coach could have been labeled beefy, Cleo immediately saw who he meant. A very large gentleman stood with a tankard in one hand and a sausage in the other, alternatively partaking from either. All the while his face grew redder and redder until Cleo thought he must explode.

  “He likely has a wager on and isn’t pleased it’s about to be declared void,” Leslie commented. “And what about that young fellow there, with the yellow feather in his cap?”

  Cleo spotted the young man easily enough. His confident swagger and cries to customers were spoiled by an occasional hiccough that shook his slender frame. “The one selling the brandy balls?”

  “Looks as if he’s been sampling his wares,” Leslie replied. “And I see we aren’t the only members of the ton present. See that toffee-colored coach? That’s Lord Darton’s equipage.”

  “Will Lady DeGuis be here?” Cleo asked, glancing about.

  Leslie shook his head. “Not likely. Margaret has little interest in fighting of this sort.”

  His tone rang with admiration. Cleo eyed him. “And you applaud her for that, don’t you?”

  “Certainly,” he agreed readily. “I admire many things about Margaret. She’s honest, caring, intelligent, and rousing good fun.”

  Cleo caught herself wondering whether he’d describe her with such passion. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d behaved with a great deal of care or intelligence lately. Well, at least she had provided him with some fun. She turned back to the window in time to see a familiar face in the crowd. She stiffened, heart jumping to her throat.

  “Oh, look, Leslie! It’s Major Cutter.”

  Leslie peered out his own window. As Cleo watched, the major made his way through the throng. He was dressed in civilian clothes today, a bottle green coat and chamois trousers tucked into gleaming Hessians. To her surprise, he seemed to be heading for Leslie’s carriage.

  “He’s coming this way.” Her hands fluttered to tug down her Spencer and smooth down her skirt. “Oh, Leslie, this could be my chance. Will you invite him to join us?”

  Leslie hesitated as she turned an entreating face to him. “You will not mind him seeing you in a questionable situation?” he asked.

  Cleo shook her head. Then, remembering her ankles, she scrambled back into a proper sitting position. “Please, Leslie?” she begged.

  Still Leslie hesitated, regarding her steadily. She felt her blush growing. “What? Is something the matter with me?”

  He sighed. “No, Sprout, you are utterly adorable, as always. Allow me to fetch your hero for you. But somehow I doubt I will be thanked for it, by either of you.”

  She frowned, but he had already lowered the window on his side of the coach, calling the major by name. Cleo swallowed, hardly daring to peer out the window to see whether the man would respond. But a moment more and the door handle was turning. She felt herself trembling as violently as the coach as Major Cutter climbed in to join them.

  She wasn’t sure how he would react when he saw her, but to her delight, his questioning smile grew to one of obvious pleasure, and he seated himself beside her rather than joining Leslie on the other side of the carriage.

  “Miss Renfield, how nice to see you,” he said taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. His mouth pressed fervently against the back of her hand, sending her heart to her throat. No doubt that was why she was only able to stammer out a greeting.

  “Good of you to join us, Cutter,” Leslie put in, obviously trying to break the spell.

  Major Cutter’s gaze held Cleo’s even as his hand refused to release hers. “The invitation could not have been more welcome,” he answered.

  Cleo swallowed, willing her boneless fingers to pull away from him.

  “Who do you favor?” Leslie persisted.

  Major Cutter’s mouth lifted in a smile that sent heat to the center of her stomach before he turned to Leslie at last. “The Bull, naturally. He has the longer reach, the greater height, and the better reputation.”

  “He also has the least motivation,” Leslie argued. “Miss Renfield and I favor Jabberton. He still has passion for the sport.”

  “Ah, yes, passion,” Major Cutter replied knowingly. “An important quality, in any number of situations, as I believe you both know.”

  Cleo frowned. She quite agreed with the basic sentiment, but something in the way Leslie’s dark eyes flashed and Major Cutter smiled told her that something else was being said. She wasn’t entirely sure what, but she could not help but feel that it had something to do with her.

  “Ah, look,” he continued smoothly as if unaware of the tensions in the coach. “The has arrived at last.”

  Cleo turned eagerly to the window, but sitting in the ladylike position afforded her a view no better than the backs of those nearest her. Climbing on her knees with Major Cutter present was unthinkable. She allowed herself a small sigh.

  “You’ll appreciate his stance, Miss Renfield.” Major Cutter’s voice, so near her ear, startled her, and she realized he had slid up closely behind her. Her heart started pounding so hard and fast that she could barely hear his next murmured words.

  “You can see how he holds his hands loosely, as if he’s ready for any
thing.” She tensed as his hand glazed her shoulder, his fingers brushing the curls at the nap of her neck. “His body is confident in his power. At any moment, he might lunge at his opponent, conquering him.”

  The coach was surely heating in the afternoon sun. She could not imagine why Lord Hastings had painted it in so dark a color. She slid away from Major Cutter, pinning herself up against the cool of the window, and tugged at the collar of her Spencer. Outside a cheer went up, and she wished she could see what had caused it. Anything to take her mind off the major’s closeness.

  “Ah, Jabberton is down already,” Major Cutter supplied with a shake of his head that somehow allowed him to close the distance between them. “I knew the Bull would prove the dominant fighter. He takes what he wants.”

  Cleo’s head spun. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath. Oh, Lord, please don’t let me faint. I refuse to be one of those milk and water misses.

  “Here, Cleo.” Leslie’s voice came gently through her fog. “I think you’ll find the view better from my window.”

  She blinked and focused with difficulty on Leslie’s smile. Her legs trembled under her as she rose, but she managed to cross the small distance without mishap.

  Leslie had piled up the bolsters so that she could still sit like a lady and see out. With a smile of gratitude, she perched on her new throne and peered out at the ring.

  She was hoping the fight might distract her from the heated thoughts Major Cutter had engendered. But there was no help outside for her flushed constitution. She was quite shocked to find that both the gentlemen were naked from the waist up. Already sweat poured down the rippling muscles of the Mighty Bull of Lancaster, making his tanned skin glisten in the sunlight like polished mahogany. Jabberton, scrambling up from the ground, was peppered with dirt, but that only emphasized his chiseled frame. She tried to focus on the action rather than either of them. Unfortunately, they continued to swing at each other until the Bull managed to close with the smaller Jabberton. The pain on the smaller man’s face made her drop her gaze to her clenched hands.

  It wasn’t until Jabberton had managed to trip the Bull and slam his head into the ground (as Leslie described to her later), thus ending the fight, that she was able to raise her gaze. Then it was to find Major Cutter regarding her with narrowed eyes. When he saw her staring, he smiled, but this time the gesture did not delight her. She felt as if someone had doused her in cold water.

  “So, you’ve won your wager, Miss Renfield,” he said as Leslie rapped on the roof to signal his coachman to go fetch their winnings. “It would appear passion won after all.”

  “Luck,” Leslie proclaimed before Cleo could respond. “Miss Renfield is a good luck charm. I never fear when she is at my side.”

  His sunny smile smacked of ownership. Cleo bristled.

  “Nonsense, Lord Hastings,” she declared, using the hated title deliberately, “you do very well without me, if the tales I hear are true.”

  “He plays the game well,” the major agreed graciously. “He’s quite lucky, at cards. Speaking of which, I’ve discovered a delightful new gaming establishment. Select clientele, tasteful atmosphere, well moderated play. Perhaps you two would care to join me?”

  He was inviting her along? She was fairly certain ladies weren’t allowed in gaming establishments. She turned to look at Leslie. “What do you think, Les?”

  Leslie scowled. “You have no business out in public at a place like that.”

  How could she not take umbrage at his high-handed manner?

  “It’s not such a bad place,” Major Cutter insisted. “I’m certain it would be all right if we were both there to protect her.”

  “She shouldn’t be someplace she needs two grown men to protect her,” Leslie told him heatedly.

  Cleo returned his scowl. “It hardly sounds that dangerous.”

  “It isn’t,” Major Cutter promised. “However, I would not want to advise you against the wishes of your protector, Miss Renfield.”

  Leslie’s body went stiff, and Cleo glanced at him in surprise. The muscle was working in his jaw again, as if he’d clenched his teeth, and his eyes burned into the Major. “I am not Miss Renfield’s protector, Cutter,” he said with an edge of steel in his voice. “We are old friends, nothing more.”

  Cleo glanced at the major, who had raised his chin and was regarding Leslie with equal heat. “Then you will not mind if another gentleman shows interest.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, cutting through their locked gazes. “Why are you two being so hostile to each other?”

  It was probably not the ladylike thing to say. Undoubtedly she was breaking some rule that said she was to sit politely like a bone between two dogs and wait until they were through tearing each other apart. Certainly Leslie looked at her as if she’d grown a second nose. Major Cutter merely inclined his head in her direction.

  “I shall allow Lord Hastings to explain, my dear,” he replied. “Perhaps I should leave him to it. Thank you for allowing me to view the fight with you. If you change your mind, Hastings, about any of the topics we’ve discussed, please feel free to contact me at White’s this evening. Miss Renfield, your servant.”

  Cleo watched as he moved to open the coach door. She glanced at Leslie, but his face was shuttered. Despite the uncertain undercurrents, she could not let the major leave like this. She reached out and put a hand on his arm.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Major,” she said. “And may I return the compliment by inviting you to call on me at home?”

  She was being forward, and he obviously realized it. His face was suddenly as shuttered as Leslie’s. “Always happy to oblige a lady, Miss Renfield,” he returned. “Enjoy your winnings.”

  She let him go and watched as he shut the coach door with a snap behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A

  s soon as Cutter took his miserable, womanizing hide out the door, Cleo rounded on Leslie, as he knew she would.

  “Explain yourself immediately,” she demanded. “You were unconscionably rude to Major Cutter. I want to know why.”

  He couldn’t answer her. No matter what he tried, he was continually put in a position where he had to shatter her innocence. Perhaps he should simply tell her his suspicions and have done with it.

  “He called me your protector,” he said. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

  She frowned. “I assumed it was something of a guardian, like Mr. Carlisle is to me.”

  He snorted. “Oh, it’s nothing like that, I assure you.” She gazed at him quizzically, and he raked a hand back through his hair. How could he explain this to her? “You’re putting me in an impossible position.”

  “Why?” she asked, then, as he groaned, she laid a hand on his arm. “Leslie, what is it? I felt the tension between the two of you, so I know something of import transpired. Shouldn’t I know what?”

  She had a right to know, but he still couldn’t find the words to tell her. He sighed. “Do you know anything about your sisters’ marriages?”

  She cocked her head. “A little I suppose. Why do you ask?”

  Why did he ask? Why couldn’t he simply say it? “Do you know why your sister’s husband, Lord Stephenson, is rarely received?”

  “He gambles,” she answered readily enough. “And he flirts with other men’s wives.”

  Leslie took a deep breath. “Everyone gambles. And it isn’t the flirting that bothers them, Sprout.”

  Her face flamed. “You’re talking about taking a mistress.”

  “Do you understand what that means?” he asked, watching her.

  She hung her head. “Very little.”

  How he hated this. “How little?”

  She squirmed. “Must we have this discussion?”

  “Not in the slightest,” he replied. “As long as you don’t ask me why I nearly called Tony Cutter out just now.”

  She let out her breath in a sigh of exasperation. “But I must know, Leslie.” When
he said nothing, she shrugged. “Very well. A mistress is someone a gentlemen kisses who is not his wife.”

  “Close enough,” Leslie declared, offering a prayer of gratitude that he did not have to elaborate. “When a woman agrees to be a mistress, she goes under a man’s protection. He generally pays for her upkeep the way a man might keep his wife. The man who keeps her is therefore known as her protector.”

  She stared at him, and he could see the comprehension dawning behind her eyes. “You must be mistaken.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Oh, no, Sprout, I assure you, I am not mistaken.”

  “But Major Cutter would not use the term that way,” she protested, nearly making him gag with her misplaced loyalty. “He could not believe that we...that I....”

  “Anyone with a grain of sense would know you cannot be my mistress,” Leslie assured her. “You are a lady, and my tastes tend to run in other directions.”

  That brought the color flooding back into her cheeks, and he cursed himself. “You have a mistress?” she demanded.

  “No,” he snapped. That was only the truth, for he had been far too busy, first with his father’s death and then with Cleo to find himself a likely candidate.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. It doesn’t strike me as a very gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Most of the gentlemen of his acquaintance would have disagreed, but he did not want to encourage her thoughts along those lines. “Now do you see why I disfavor Cutter?”

  She scowled. “No, for I cannot believe he would do such a thing either. Nor do I believe he finds me a woman of easy virtue.”

  He threw up his hands. “Then I can’t help you, Cleo. For I believe he would, and he does.”

  She gazed at him a moment before shaking her head. “Then we are at an impasse.”

  “We seem to be,” he agreed. “And in that case, I think we should decide upon our next course of action, which should be to find you a husband.”