Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

by Julia Justiss

  His suspicions of Trowbridge’s intent revived, he said shortly, ‘Once I am fully recovered.’

  ‘Indeed. I heard the most shocking rumour in town yesterday,’ Trowbridge said, his tone studiedly casual. ‘That Mr Anders had served aboard ship as a common seaman! Of course, I informed the man that he must be mistaken. Stanhope’s cousin, a mere member of the ship’s company?’ Trowbridge laughed. ‘I cannot imagine how such a story got out.’

  Was Trowbridge truly ignorant, assuming from his lineage that the informant must be mistaken? Somehow Greville didn’t think so. Best to meet attack with immediate counter-attack.

  Greville fixed Trowbridge with a stern look. ‘Surely you know that, without the selfless service of those common seamen, who suffered years of deprivation whilst manning the blockade, Bonaparte might have succeeded in invading England? But with your esteemed father such a knowledgeable member of the Lords, as his assistant, of course you understand that truth.’

  As swiftly as a chain following its anchor into the deep, Althea took up the cause. ‘Forgive me for disputing with a guest, Uncle James,’ she cried, ‘but I find it shocking of Lord Trowbridge to disparage our loyal seaman. Oh, the stories Mr Anders has related of their bravery and endurance under the harshest of circumstances!’

  Trowbridge couldn’t have looked more surprised if the table leg had leaned over and bit him. With a glance at Lord Bronning that said girls not yet out would be better confined to the schoolroom, he replied, ‘I didn’t mean to diminish our seamen’s efforts, Miss Holton. The fact that, though most are very rough individuals, they none the less perform well in battle just demonstrates that even the most unpromising of material can be moulded into an effective fighting force, led by superior officers.’

  Spoken like a seasoned naval veteran, Greville thought with disgust. It sounded like Trowbridge had been gossiping with Lieutenant Belcher. ‘Have you much personal acquaintance with seamen, my lord?’ he asked drily.

  Trowbridge looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, but everyone knows—’

  ‘I thought not. Forgive me, but I fear you have been gravely misinformed. It’s true that many sailors are illiterate and come from humble backgrounds, and certainly the Navy has its share of rogues and reprobates, like every rank of society.’ Including yours, you privileged, self-satisfied, pampered bastard. ‘But in the main, the hard life roots out the undesirables, leaving only those with the skill and grit to survive long months at sea on short rations, performing difficult jobs under nearly impossible conditions. As Miss Holton mentioned, after my short time among them, I came away having personally witnessed more than a dozen instances of most uncommon bravery and self-sacrifice.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that most are not valiant men,’ Trowbridge protested, retreating rapidly.

  ‘I’m sure you did not,’ Greville said. ‘But all this naval talk cannot be of much interest to the ladies. Mrs Williams, I believe you were about to describe the clever comedy you lately attended in Exeter?’

  Nothing more was required to launch that lady off into a long recitation of the play, the theatre and all the notables in attendance. Satisfied, Greville sat back, while a disgruntled Trowbridge pasted a smile on his face and gave the appearance of listening with great interest to Mrs Williams. And for the first time since dinner began, Greville noted with delight, the earl’s son did not try to engage the attention of Miss Neville.

  She gave Greville a speculative look. He bit back a grin. Trust that clever lady to have noticed that his impassioned speech masked the fact that he’d never directly answered Trowbridge’s question about his naval service. However, though he might owe the host and hostess who had opened their home to him some explanation of how and why he came to be at Ashton Grove, he certainly didn’t owe one to Trowbridge. His high-and-mighty lordship, Greville felt sure, would think twice before trying again to ambush plain Mr Anders.

  Althea’s muffled giggle interrupted his thoughts. When he turned towards her, one eyebrow raised quizzically, she mouthed a ‘well done’, then swirled her hand in a circular motion before dropping it into her lap.

  In recognition of his sinking of the conversational fireship Trowbridge had launched to destroy him? Amused, he grinned back.

  Not until after Mrs Williams finally finished her lengthy account did the earl’s unusually subdued son once again address a remark to Miss Neville.

  After returning him a brief reply, she rose and said, ‘I believe it’s time for the ladies to leave you gentlemen to your spirits. Mrs Williams, Althea, if you would accompany me?’

  The men stood politely as the females left, Greville watching Miss Neville disappear with a mingled sense of triumph and sadness. She’d refrained from comment during his short skirmish with Trowbridge. Had his verbal vanquishing of her guest, whom she had to consider a prime potential suitor, angered her?

  The possibility ought to remind him how fragile and temporary their ‘friendship’ was likely to be. Though in the battle of public opinion Althea was firmly among his crew, Miss Neville would almost certainly sail with Trowbridge in lamenting the low nature of his naval service. His cordial association with her was based merely on politeness and proximity, a connection that would never survive the parting when she left for London and he went on to pursue a new career.

  The sense of loss that settled in his chest at acknowledging that fact was dismayingly sharper than it should have been.

  Since Trowbridge now carefully refrained from even glancing in his direction, Greville was left in peace to sip his brandy. He considered making his excuses and departing at once—but then he’d not be able to see Miss Neville at tea and assess the damage.

  His logical mind tried to convince the rest of him that forfeiting her friendship, however painful now, would prove wiser in the end, since ending it was inevitable anyway. The rest of him simply didn’t want to listen. Every illogical impulse impelled him to see her, mollify her and worm his way back into her favour, if he had indeed forfeited it by engaging Trowbridge.

  Why this imperative to return to her good graces? Watching the brandy as he swirled it in the glass, he admitted that, for the short time she remained at Ashton Grove, he just didn’t want to deny himself the pleasure of her company, even though being with her was neither safe nor wise.

  Not when desire suffused him whenever he gazed at her, emptying his mind of everything but the almost tangible need to taste and touch her. Even more dangerous was the hold she was coming to have over his thoughts and emotions.

  The day was simply brighter when he walked with her. Like it or not, the music of her laughter lightened his heart. He felt an absurd sense of satisfaction when he managed a remark that pulled her from preoccupation with the many burdens she carried and provoked her into a laugh or a smile. A wave of exuberant delight washed through him each time he teased her into an exchange of wit, energising as the flash of cutlass blades.

  He didn’t want to give that up. Surely the earth wouldn’t shift off its axis if he indulged himself in her company for the short time she had left at Ashton Grove.

  Enough arguing, he thought. He didn’t mean to probe any further into the significance of his reluctance to abstain from her company. For a while at least, he’d be the ‘old Greville’, enjoying the moment without a worry for the future.

  Perhaps because, without her presence in it, that future was beginning to seem a bit bleak.

  Waiting for the bustle around the tea table to subside, Greville contented himself with simply observing Miss Neville—her lovely profile, the effortless grace with which she poured tea while maintaining a flow of conversation with her guests. When at last the crowd thinned and he approached, ready to man the scuppers and salvage the leaky vessel of their relationship, to his surprise, she leaned close. ‘Could I have a word with you later?’ she whispered. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Of course,’ he murmured back. ‘When and where?’

  ‘In the library. After our guests leave
, and Papa and Althea go up to bed.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, then turned away. ‘More tea, Mrs Williams?’

  Could he really have just made an assignation with his host’s daughter? Greville wondered, still not sure he’d heard her properly. After running her words through his mind again and finding no other possible meaning, a thrill of anticipation sent his spirits soaring.

  She might be seeking a private audience to dress him down for embarrassing a guest…but he didn’t think so. Could that invitation imply what he hoped it did? Though logic said there couldn’t possibly be an illicit meaning beneath the words, deep within, a fierce sensual expectation uncoiled.

  He should put a halt to any wild imaginings before they began. This was no time to indulge in lustful hopes. Amanda looked troubled, not seductive. Almost certainly she needed his help, not his kisses.

  Even though, try to restrain it as he might, kisses were all he could think of.

  Tea dragged on what seemed an interminable time. He had to endure watching Trowbridge with his gaze fastened on Miss Neville like a starving beggar anticipating a feast. Listen to him making her pretty compliments, promising to have his mama call on her as soon as she arrived in town, to all of which she replied with courtesy but not, he thought, anything warmer.

  Greville knew he shouldn’t resent the man so much—but with his wealth, title, status and good looks, Trowbridge was just too perfectly placed to carry off the prize Greville was coming to admire much too much for his own good.

  Finally the party broke up, Trowbridge and the Williamses setting off in their carriage. At an arched eyebrow and a nod from Miss Neville, Greville left the drawing room and headed for the library.

  Chapter Eleven

  Greville’s accelerating heartbeat already thudding in his chest, he entered the darkened room, wondering what was so urgent Miss Neville felt compelled to sneak out and discuss it this very night. He tried, he really did try, not to think wicked thoughts…but he just couldn’t help it.

  Images of fevered kisses and stolen caresses seemed to shimmer in the dimly lit air around him. Desire rose in a fierce wave, swamping him.

  Not at all sure he could control it, he was halfway to the point of leaving when the door opened softly and, bearing a single candle, Miss Neville crept in.

  She jumped when his figure materialised out of gloom. ‘Whisper the secret code,’ he joked, trying to set her at ease and rein in the desire that pounded in his ears and pulsed through his body with every rapid heartbeat.

  He yearned to draw closer, but he couldn’t risk that now, not with the strong sensual connection sizzling between them. Not when the shadows and the teasing scent of her perfume and her lovely face, gazing up at him, would make leaning down to claim her lips so very easy.

  He took a step back from temptation, his hands shaking with the effort to resist touching her. Forcing himself to focus on the reason for this meeting, he said, ‘What has transpired that is so dire you must sneak about in the dark to discuss it?’

  Without preamble, she related the troubling news her maid had confided. ‘I fear some altercation is imminent, for George did not appear tonight, though he knew we had guests and that Papa would surely be distressed by his absence. Even my brother is generally not that heedless. Could you ride to the Coastal Brigade station tomorrow and see what you can discover? I know I should confide in Papa, but…he’s been looking so ill these last few days. I hope my fears are only wild imaginings, and don’t wish to add to his anxiety without good cause.’

  He wished he could reassure her—or, better still, kiss the worried frown from her brow, but the circumstances she’d just described were so troubling and potentially dangerous, they managed to check even his passion, at least for the moment.

  ‘I will ride into Salters Bay first thing tomorrow.’

  She exhaled a sigh. ‘Thank you! I’m sorry to involve you in troubles that do not concern you, but I had no one else to confide in. And I knew I could count on you.’

  His rational mind tried to rein in the ecstatic leap of his heart at that avowal. She counted on her maid to dress her and her cook to prepare a good meal. He was making a great deal too much of out of nothing.

  Or was he?

  Overriding that speculation was the imperative, now that she was here, to make the most of this rare opportunity. With every atom within him, he ached to kiss her, but since that was nearly certain to send her scurrying to the safety of her room, he’d settle for luring her to remain here so he might savour her presence.

  Ease off, he cautioned himself. A direct reference to the incident at dinner should cool his ardour and remind them both of his place. ‘I thought you might want to berate me. If so, prime your weapon.’

  He succeeded in part of his mission; the frown smoothed from her brow and she gave him a reproving look. ‘You were rather hard on poor Lord Trowbridge.’

  ‘Poor’ Lord Trowbridge. Now that was a hopeful sign. Ladies generally did not favour men they referred to as ‘poor’. Though the eventual possession of a powerful title must have a wonderfully strengthening effect, even on a weakling.

  ‘Surely you see he deliberately provoked my response.’

  ‘Yes, his attempt to ferret out information was surprisingly ill bred.’

  The words trembled on his tongue to ask if she realised Trowbridge’s purpose had been to injure someone he saw as a possible rival. Before he could decide whether such a question was wise, she said, ‘May I ask a terribly ill-bred question?’

  A sinking sensation spiralled in his belly. Though he feared he knew where this was headed, he replied, ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did you come to join the Navy?’

  After the look she’d given him in the dining room, he wasn’t surprised by her enquiry. He was her guest, imposing upon the hospitality of her family. She must be as curious as Trowbridge had been…and though revealing the arrogance and folly that had led him on to the deck of the Illustrious might well lower him in her estimation, she deserved the truth.

  ‘It’s rather a long story.’

  ‘I should like to hear it, if you don’t mind the telling,’ she replied, motioning him to the sofa.

  He followed, thinking ruefully that once his tale was done, he’d not have to worry about tempting her with kisses. She’d probably bolt from the room and take care to stay far away until she could put the distance from Ashton Grove to London between them.

  ‘As I expect you know, my family is a junior branch of the Stanhope tree, without land of our own. When I returned home from the army after Waterloo, I approached my cousin Lord Englemere, who offered me a position managing an estate near Nottingham. Knowing little about running a property, I intended to turn it down, but Sergeant Barksdale, my assistant in the Quartermaster’s Corps who’d returned to England with me, persuaded me to accept. He’d grown up in the country, he said; hire him as my foreman and he would show me how to manage the estate.

  ‘I trusted him, unwisely as it turned out. Instead of taking me in hand, he urged me to leave the details of running the estate to him…and I did.’

  With a bitter curl of his lip, Greville recalled how completely Barksdale had gulled him. And he’d been perfectly content to be so gulled, he thought with brutal self-appraisal, as long as he could fancy himself ‘lord of the manor’ on his occasional rides around the property, his vanity stoked by his assistant’s assurances that supervising the work of manual labourers and common clerks was beneath the dignity of a gentleman’s son. It had been all too easy for Barksdale to lull him with wine and loose women into ignoring what was happening under his very nose on the estate given into his charge.

  ‘It shames me to confess that even after my time in the army, I was still indolent, arrogant and far too sure of my own worth. Not until I’d been more than a year at Blenhem Hill did I discover how badly wrong things had gone. One of the farmers came to me demanding justice, claimi
ng Barksdale was overcharging for rents, delivering less than promised of seed, tools and equipment, and refusing to make repairs, even the most essential. At his insistence, instead of a cursory ride about the estate, I made a more thorough inspection of the farms.’

  Greville shook his head, the shock and dismay of what he’d uncovered that day still painful to recall. ‘Even to one of my inexperience, conditions looked grim. I returned to the estate office and inspected the books, discovering entries that showed far less rent recorded than had actually been paid. That same day, a message arrived from my cousin. The former estate agent, now retired, had written him about the state of affairs at Blenhem Hill. Englemere’s letter informed me I’d been relieved of my position.’

  Greville felt the burn of humiliation that had scorched him that day, reading Englemere’s dismissal. ‘My cousin was right; I’d let him down; I’d failed the people who’d depended on me. However, though Barksdale’s guilt in no way relieved me of responsibility for the situation, before I informed Lord Englemere of his crime, I wanted to give my confederate the chance to make retribution.’

  Greville laughed bitterly. ‘Even then, I didn’t have his true measure. Once he saw I could be misled no longer, he begged for some time to consider how he might repay what he’d stolen. The last thing I remember before waking up with a pounding headache on some low back street in Portsmouth was turning away to pour him a glass of wine.’

  ‘He attacked you?’ Miss Neville asked with gasp.

  ‘With the fireplace poker, I suspect. Since I have almost no memory of what would have been several days’ journey, he must have drugged me as well, then turned me over to some disreputable associate. With the threat of prosecution hanging over him, I expect Barksdale paid his confederate well to make sure I was sent off to sea, hopefully never to return. Delivered to the press gang stripped of my clothing and everything else of value, I didn’t much resemble a gentleman, and despite my seemingly drunken state, they judged me otherwise in good health. Anxious to return the ship as quickly as possible, they hauled me into a wagon and set off. By time I was fully conscious, I found myself aboard a prison hulk off Portsmouth, under guard and awaiting transport to the Illustrious.’