Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  He shook his head. "They would have referred to him as Lord Tremaine."

  "Perhaps he had not succeeded to the title until after your parents were married."

  He thought on Louisa's comment for a moment, then hurled his glass into the fire.

  The fire surged and sputtered, then died down to normal.

  Harry turned to her. "You must be right."

  They sat there in silence, Louisa watching light from the fire dance along the strong planes of his face.

  His face grew solemn. "Killing him would give me great pleasure."

  She curled her hand around his arm. "Don't talk like that. There are other ways of reaping vengeance upon him."

  "Such as?"

  "You could expose him for ruining your father."

  "My dear Louisa, there are no laws against taking a man's money and possessions at a gentleman's club."

  She thought some more. "We can steal back your mother's portrait."

  He searched her face from beneath hooded brows. "You would do that for me?"

  "It wouldn't really be stealing," she defended. "The painting belongs to you. Besides, he is a vile man. We don't want Lady Wycliff's portrait in his possession."

  He lifted both of Louisa's hands and kissed them.

  It was all she could do not to throw her arms about his neck.

  She was drinking nothing stronger than warm milk tonight. No more morning-after headaches for her. She watched with worry as Harry continued to drink hour after hour. At midnight she finally persuaded him to come to bed. With one arm around him, she helped him climb the stairs to their room.

  On his own, he staggered the short distance from the room's door to their bed and fell upon it. His eyes were shut and his breathing was deep but steady.

  Louisa closed the door and walked to the bed where she pulled off his boots, then placed a single blanket over him.

  A moment later, wearing her woolen night shift, she slid under the covers beside Harry. As she lay there, a feeling of comfort swept over her. Why couldn't she have been pledged to a man like Harry? How different her life would have been.

  Her hand possessively stroked over the hardened planes of Harry's manly shoulders. She could see herself happily lying beside him for the rest of her nights, but such thoughts – such torturing pleasure – must not be invited. For Harry Blassingame, the Earl of Wycliff, was as far removed from her touch as the stars in the heavens.

  With the Cornish winds howling outside their casement, the smell of salt air flooding their chamber from the half-open window, and the warmth of Harry beside her, she fell into a contented sleep.

  * * *

  It was Louisa who brought tea and elixir to Harry the next morning. Harry was in the same position he had been in when he sprawled on the bed the night before.

  "Can you not close the curtain?" he asked, refusing to lift his head from the bed. "The blasted sun's far too strong."

  "As well it should be," Louisa answered. "It is almost noon."

  "Our daylight grows short," he exclaimed, moving to sit up and force down the elixir Louisa offered. Then he laughed at himself. "I was thinking we were still on the road to finding our mysterious lord." He finished drinking and sat the glass on the table beside the bed. "Now, there's no longer a need to make tracks during daylight."

  Louisa stood beside the bed and looked down at him. "Now, I think, we will need night, rather than day, to accomplish our mission."

  He looked puzzled. "What mission would that be?"

  "We're going to reclaim your mother's portrait."

  His lips curved into a smile. "You are a positive vixen."

  She laughed. "I know that's what all you aristocrats say about me."

  He made room for her to come and sit beside him on the bed while he finished his tea.

  It felt perfectly natural for her to be sitting here with a barefooted lord, on a bed, in the village of Falwell, carrying on a conversation about stealing a painting. Everything she did with Harry seemed perfectly natural. As if they were meant to be together. Which, of course, could never really be. Harry was an aristocrat, and she was a bluestocking, and the two did not get on. Add to that the fact Harry didn't really like her. He had made that perfectly clear when he had recovered from his grave illness.

  "How would you propose to gain entrance into the castle at night? I expect the drawbridge will be up."

  She bit at her lip. "I hadn't actually thought of that."

  He looked down at his feet. "Pray, where are my boots?"

  "At the foot of the bed."

  "And who, may I ask, took them off?"

  "I did."

  He looked down at her with a devilish glint in his eyes. "Why did you not remove the rest of my garments while you were at it?"

  "I had no desire to see you without clothes, my lord," Louisa said haughtily.

  A cockiness swept across his face. "I don't believe you."

  "Shall we continue our discussion on how we are to gain entrance to Garwick Castle if the drawbridge is drawn at night?" she asked, standing up and walking to the window, then turning back to face him. "I have determined the reclaiming must take place at night because of the immense size of the portrait. We could hardly escape detection in the light of day."

  "That's true," he said, nodding. "Yet I believe we shall have to devise a way to get into the castle during the day and wait until after the Tremaine fiend has taken dinner, then we'll – I mean I – will have to, ah, reclaim the portrait."

  "Why did you amend your statement, my lord?"

  "I can't possibly let you be a party to the reclamation."

  "Why, pray tell?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing, her voice hard.

  "Because you're a female and because it may be dangerous."

  She would see about that! "Tell me, my lord, how do you propose to get in? Public Day won't come again until next Thursday."

  "I shall have to think on it."

  Chapter 22

  Once Harry had dressed and shaved, he met Louisa downstairs at the Speckled Goose Inn. This morning he declined breakfast but asked for rather strong tea. Since Louisa had already finished her meal, they just sat and talked in the privacy of their parlor.

  "I have decided," Harry began, "not to steal into the castle at night but to go there in broad daylight and demand to talk with this Tremaine."

  "He won't see you if you give him your real name."

  "I have never been thwarted by resistance."

  "But, Harry, you can't draw your sword and go barreling in there. Castle Garwick is not a ship and you have no fellow cutthroats to back you."

  "Neither I nor my men were cutthroats."

  "That is beside the point. You saw for yourself all those brutes he obviously keeps for protection. As large as you are, I daresay, they are larger."

  Harry lowered his brows and took another sip from his mug of strong tea. "You have not changed my mind, you know."

  "Promise me you won't do anything drastic until we talk it over."

  "And what do you term drastic?"

  "Forcing yourself into Lord Tremaine's chambers when he has refused to see you."

  Harry looked into his cup, his eyes inscrutable. "He'll see me."

  She moved to get up. "Let's go."

  With a firm hand on her arm, he held her back. "Forgive me if I don't take you this once, Louisa."

  She sat back down and patted his arm. "I understand. It's a matter that truly doesn't concern me."

  He stood.

  "If you're not back in ninety minutes, I shall have the castle stormed," she warned.

  He drank the remaining tea, kissed the top of her head and left.

  For the first time since their journey had begun, Louisa picked up her pen and began to compose one of Mr. Lewis's essays.

  * * *

  It was surprisingly easy for Harry to get in to see Lord Tremaine. He merely presented his card – his real card – to the butler and said he needed to see Lord Tremaine on a ma
tter of a personal nature.

  Less than half an hour later he was face-to-face with the man he blamed for his parents' deaths.

  Wearing a silken robe, though the afternoon sun squinted in the room's small arch-shaped windows, Tremaine sat on a silk brocade sofa in the library. He looked much as Louisa had described him except that Harry had difficulty calling a man distinguished who lounged on sofas in silk robes. Harry could see that he was tall, even if he had not risen when Harry entered the chamber.

  Tremaine looked up at Harry, a bland expression on his aging face. "I see that you have found me."

  Harry refused to sit where Tremaine indicated. Planting his booted feet in front of Tremaine, he said, "You thought to get away with your cheating schemes?"

  "But it wasn't I who cheated."

  "It was you who bankrolled your pawn, Godwin Phillips, may he burn in hell."

  Tremaine laughed. "It does me good to see so much hatred in you. Now you know how I felt toward your father when he stole Isobel from me."

  "My father never did a hateful thing in his life. All he did was love my mother – as she loved him."

  "She loved me once," Tremaine said.

  Harry shook his head. "Never, George. She told me so."

  Tremaine smashed the crystal goblet he was holding into the stone floor. "You lie."

  "Had she loved you, she would have married you."

  "She loved me until Robert--"

  "She never loved you." The words gave Harry a perverse satisfaction.

  Tremaine thrust his head into profile. "Believe what you like." Then he turned back to face Harry, devilment in his gray eyes. "While you're simmering in hatred for Godwin Phillips."

  "I hate Phillips more for what he did to his young wife than for what he did to my father." He fisted his hands and walked closer to Tremaine. "It is you I hate for what happened to my father."

  Tremaine laughed. "I have no fight with you. After all, you have much of Isobel in you."

  "Then if you have no fight with me, allow me to buy the Grosvenor Square House back."

  Tremaine thought for a moment. "How much are you willing to pay for it?"

  "Twenty-five thousand pounds is more than a fair price."

  Tremaine laughed. "Double that, and it's yours."

  "The house and everything that was in it?"

  "For fifty thousand pounds, yes."

  "Good," Harry said. "You will have the money within the month." Then he did something that was repugnant to him. He bent forward and offered the vile man his hand.

  They shook hands. A gentleman's agreement.

  Then Harry said, "I'll just fetch my mother's portrait now," as he began to move from the room.

  Tremaine rose. He was as tall as Harry. "You'll do no such thing."

  Harry turned. "But we shook on it. The house and all that was in it."

  "I. ..I," Tremaine stammered, "I meant all that is in it."

  "You know the portrait rightfully belongs to me."

  "My young man, I have never done things in my life because they were right."

  That was the last straw. Harry's fist flew into Tremaine's jaw.

  Then Harry, with fists at the ready, was poised for the man. Instead, Tremaine's hands flew to his jaw, and he saw blood on his hand and screamed like a woman.

  Footmen, who obviously were hired as sentries, scurried into the room with swords drawn.

  Harry held up his arms. "I am unarmed, and I shall leave peacefully."

  Tremaine made sure his footmen saw Harry all the way to the drawbridge.

  * * *

  Louisa was still sitting in the parlor writing by the light of a candle when Harry returned. When she saw him, her face alighted and she put down her pen. "Oh, Harry, thank goodness you're back! I was getting worried."

  He cocked his head and peered at her with those glowering eyes of his. "No Harry Dearest?"

  She could feel the blush climb up her cheeks like smoke rising in a chimney. He had heard her the day of his recovery.

  "Why you. . .you utterly wretched, wicked, vile aristocrat!"

  "Calm yourself, Louisa."

  "Don't you dare call me Louisa!"

  He placed both hands upon her shoulders and butted his forehead to hers. "I told you I refuse to call you by that man's name."

  She brushed aside some of her anger. "You didn't get the painting, did you?"

  He shook his head and lowered himself onto the padded bench nearest the fire. "He did agree to sell me back Wycliff House -- for twice what it's worth."

  "But not the portrait?"

  "Not the portrait," he said.

  "Then we will just have to reclaim it."

  "I – not we – Louisa. The man's quite deranged. I don't want you anywhere near that castle."

  "You should know me well enough by now to know that you cannot dictate to me."

  "If you want your money, you will do as I say."

  "That's not fair. We found your man. You cannot renege on my money."

  He lowered his brows and spoke in a low voice. "No, I can't, and I wouldn't."

  "If I can think of a clever plan to reclaim the painting, then will you allow me to accompany you?"

  "I'll think on it."

  "I shall, too," she said happily.

  * * *

  Much to Edward's consternation, he rode all the way from Woking to the Cock and Stock Inn with Miss Sinclair – dressed as a lad – sitting beside him. To make matters worse, she would not stop talking about the Bentham chap. Edward would almost welcome mention of Miss Grimm right now.

  He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do once they were inside the inn. It was dark, and they could go no farther, so he could put off his decision no longer. He could not very well procure a private room for such an ill-dressed younger brother. He could see no other way than to get a room together. Then, blast it all, he would have to give Miss Sinclair the bed while he slept on the bloody floor.

  Before they alighted from the box, he drew Miss Sinclair's attention. "I want you to know that I have no desire whatsoever to rob you of your virtue, but I believe we must share a room tonight. I promise I will not touch you in any way, I will turn my back when you dress and undress, and I will sleep on the floor."

  She sighed. "I am very glad you said that for you know I could not possibly stay at such a place alone in a room. That's one of the reasons I wanted to join you on this journey. I was frightened to stay any longer on Grosvenor Square without Louisa, and you seemed to be the only person in London I could trust."

  The lady's trust could be a very heavy burden, indeed. "There was your cook," he offered, his voice hoarse. It nearly put him to the blush to remember the fat old woman following them everywhere in Harry's gig because she was too large to fit in his phaeton.

  She thought on this for a moment. "All in all, I trust women. It's the men who frighten me. Miss Grimm says--"

  Edward held up his hands. "Pray, no more of Miss Grimm. Let us go procure a room."

  They got down and began to walk to the inn.

  "No, no," Edward exclaimed. "You had better stay here while I bespeak the room. I shouldn't want the innkeeper to see your face. I'll come back for you in a moment."

  After he bespoke a room, they ate quickly in the private parlor. Edward was afraid Miss Sinclair's gender would be given away either by her voice or her dainty face, the fear of which caused him to lose his appetite.

  He waited until no one was near the stairs then led her up in stealthy fashion.

  As soon as he shut their chamber door behind him, she started fiddling with the bedding. "What, pray tell, are you doing?" he asked.

  "What does it look like I'm doing, silly? I'm going to make you a pallet."

  At least he wouldn't have to sleep on the wood floors. He sat on a wobbly chair and began to take off his boots. He really was beastly tired. Nothing quite as tiring as traveling. One wouldn't think the body would ache so much from just sitting all day. He looked up from his boots
and saw that Miss Sinclair had given him two blankets and kept but one for herself. "Look here," he protested, "I can't have you doing that. One blanket is all I need. I'll stay close to the fire."

  "I insist," she said in the same tone his mum had used a thousand times. "After all, I have the mattress and you don't.

  Now I shall blow out the candle and put on my night things. You are to turn around and close your eyes."

  She watched as he stood and turned around and shut his eyes just before the light was snuffed. He stood there silently listening to the muffled sounds she made lifting one foot and the other in the process of getting disrobed. But instead of picturing her dressed in her boys' togs, he thought of the pretty little thing in a lace shift like Ruby would wear. Then he was mad at himself for thinking of Miss Sinclair at the same time he thought of his mistress.

  But he still could not dispel the vision of Miss Sinclair, all creamy skin, lifting up her arms to him – wearing Ruby's white lace.

  Then he listened as she climbed beneath the sheets. He pulled off his jacket, dropped his pants and fell exhausted onto the pallet Miss Sinclair had made for him beside the fire.

  Just as he was drifting into deep slumber, the lady called him.

  "Yes?" he answered.

  "Have you ever been in love?"

  Ruby didn't count. "No." Blast the girl. He was bone tired. He closed his eyes tightly, but he was not as sleepy as he had been. He found himself thinking about her question, then he became consumed with curiosity. "Miss Sinclair?" he whispered some minutes later.

  "Yes?"

  "Have you?"

  "Been in love?"

  "Yes," he said impatiently.

  "No, I don't suppose so."

  Her answer comforted him like warm milk at bed time. But he still could not go back to sleep. Another question kept tugging at him. Finally he whispered her name again.

  "Yes?" she answered.

  "Has any man ever offered for you?"

  "That's why I came to London," she said.

  His heart thudded. Had she come to London to fulfill an obligation to the man?

  "I heard Papa discussing settlements for me with Squire Wheeler."