Three Rogues and Their Ladies - A Regency Trilogy

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “One might say the same of you,” she said shortly.

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  She was silent, which was odd, as she could normally fill any awkwardness with chatter. He had her badly off her game.

  When the dance ended, he returned her to her aunt, bowed, and moved off toward the card room.

  “You have been greatly distinguished,” her aunt said with a touch of awe. “The earl never dances.” Then, recovering herself, she added, “I would not refine too much upon it, however. He has the reputation of being a very dangerous man. Add to that the fact that he is certainly a fortune hunter.”

  “I was not myself with him,” Kate said. “I do not think I will include him on my list of eligibles.” She looked around again in vain for Lord Northbrooke. “What do you mean by dangerous?”

  “There are rumors that what income he has is from smuggling. Also, he has somewhat of a reputation as a card sharp.”

  “A free-trader, is he? We have our share of that sort in Devonshire. Papa was once approached by someone he considered very law-abiding to use our cellar to store French brandy! He was not amused.”

  After supper, which Kate ate in company with a poor viscount lacking a chin, Aunt Clarice appeared flushed and ill.

  “We are leaving this instant, Aunt. I declare, I believe you are feverish.” She stripped off a glove and put a hand to Aunt Clarice’s head.

  “It is my reaction to balls, nothing more. My body invariably rebels at this time of night. Tomorrow night, it is Sukey’s turn to chaperone. Where is Caro?”

  Kate had completely lost track of her friend, whose conventional beauty made her exceedingly popular, constantly surrounded by a fleet of new beaux.

  “I will endeavor to find her, Aunt.”

  “I am the world’s worst chaperone. I hope she is not in the garden with someone.”

  “Caro is very aware of her worth and reputation, Aunt. I would not worry if I were you.”

  Her friend found, the three of them retrieved their wraps and called for their carriage.

  “Do not be disappointed, Kate,” Caro said, correctly reading her spirits as they journeyed back to Blossom House. “Remember that spark I saw in Jack’s eye. Some business may have kept him away tonight.”

  “Business?”

  “Sometimes, I swear the man leads a double life. He will not tell me what it is that he spends his time doing. It could be nothing more than an irresistible game of faro at White’s, but I think he is no gambler. I often wonder where he disappears to.”

  “How intriguing,” Kate responded, her spirits on the ascendant. “Can it be that he is a man of mystery, in addition to his other fine qualities?” This was an interesting characteristic she had not looked for.

  “I detect that you enjoy novels from the Minerva Press, Kate,” her aunt said. “I would not have thought it of you.”

  “I have been sorely in need of escape into lurid fiction since Papa’s death.”

  Aunt Clarice patted her cheek. “Oh course, dear. No criticism intended, I assure you.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon, at the fashionable hour of five o’clock, Kate was dressed and ready to receive Lord Northbrooke and his phaeton. She had outfitted herself in her riding habit, which was in the first stare of fashion: russet Merino wool, piped in black velvet with matching lapels and jockey hat. The color played up the auburn of her hair that was smoothly dressed, low on her head beneath the hat. Her blouse was ivory with a cravat upon which was nestled a russet–and-ivory cameo of her mother’s.

  However, to her chagrin, her carefully wrought scenario suffered another setback. Instead of Lord Northbrooke, she received his valet, who carried a note.

  Please accept my heartfelt apologies. The ox is in the mire. I must pull it out without delay. I shall hope to take you up on another occasion. Perhaps I will even allow you to take the ribbons.

  Your servant,

  Northbrooke

  “Blast!” she said in Caro’s hearing. “First he does not come to the ball, and now . . . what in the world does he mean by an ox in the mire?”

  “That is a curious expression of his. I hate to say this, but I always thought he used it when he just wanted to avoid doing something.”

  Frustration made Kate stamp her booted foot. “It is devilishly hard being a female!”

  “Language!” her aunt said, coming into her bedroom. “Bates tells me you are not going out with the marquis. That does not mean we cannot go out ourselves. I have a very smart curricle, you know.”

  Kate shored up her resolution. “How soon can you be dressed?”

  * * *

  The first person she saw upon pulling through the gates of Hyde Park was the curious Lord Walsingham on horseback. A prime bit of blood, Kate judged his mount. Bay stallion with a nice, broad chest and a white star on his forehead. If she was not mistaken, he was a thoroughbred. Purchased with his smuggling gains? The earl made his way to their curricle and tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  She brought the carriage to a halt. “Good afternoon, my Lord. I am admiring your mount,” Kate said.

  “He is a prime goer. Do you ride, Lady Katherine?”

  “I love to ride. I used to ride to hounds with Papa. Here in London, I already miss my mare and my morning gallop.”

  “Your home is in Devonshire, I believe.”

  So, he had been checking up on her. Probably set up inquiries in the matter of her fortune.

  “No longer, I’m afraid. Papa died last year and Cousin Freddie inherited. For the time being, I am living with Aunt Clarice.” She took her aunt’s hand. “And very fortunate to have such a lovely home here in London.”

  “So you are.” He tipped his hat to Lady Clarice. “I’ve spent a bit of time in Devon. You must miss it.”

  He could not guess how much. Her aunt squeezed her hand. No doubt she was remembering the smuggling rumors.

  “How nice to run into you, my lord,” Aunt Clarice said. “However, the horses are still fresh, so we would best not keep them standing. Good afternoon.”

  As they moved away, Kate said, “Who told you that you were not a good chaperone? Thank you for that. I cannot feel easy in his presence.”

  * * *

  As she readied herself for the rout party to which Lady Susannah was to accompany them, Kate did not know how much longer she could maintain her forced cheerfulness. She missed Joey dreadfully, and the ache for Papa was never far away. In addition, for some reason, she was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia for Florence and for the straightforward adoration of Francesco. These Englishmen would never declare themselves with the unquestionable passion of Francesco.

  Sitting at her vanity in the dimming light, Kate allowed her fancy to carry her away. The summer nights in Florence were balmy, with a bit of country breeze blowing gently through the Tuscan valley, smelling of earth. Her father and Francesco’s widowed mother, Irena, had accompanied her and Francesco on a carriage ride up to the Piazzale Michelangelo, high above Florence. Torches lit the banks of the Arno River and all its many bridges, offering a marvelous, romantic view. The tall cypresses around the piazzale stood in the moonlight like giant sentinels, guarding the magic place from the everyday world. She and her companion had wandered down the shallow steps to the second tier of the piazzale, out of sight of their chaperones.

  Francesco was not tall, but was very attractive in the way of an artist. His hair was shoulder length and wavy, worn loose and falling over his brow. His eyes were like the dark coffee they drank in Italy—deep brown and warm and liquid. His body was wiry and expressive, his mouth mobile and capable of wonderful kisses.

  That night, as she leaned with her back against the wall in a niche they had found, he had placed his hands on the stone on each side of her, and, leaning in, began caressing her with gentle kisses all over her face and neck. Before kissing her mouth, he had confessed in his romantic Italian, “I am on fire for you, Catarina. And th
is fire in me, it will burn into eternity, I think.”

  Following this declaration, he had kissed her thoroughly, surprising her with his intensity. She had never dreamed a kiss could be like that. Unfortunately, before he could say anything further, Papa had found them.

  Sitting in her room now, warmth suffused her and she could almost smell the Tuscan breeze and feel the gentleness of Francesco’s kisses. The idea of another rout party with all its artificialities held no allure for Kate whatever.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN WHICH OUR HERO PURSUES HIS OTHER LIFE

  Jack hoped to reach Devon by midnight, and so spurred his Irish thoroughbred mare to go faster once they had finally put London behind them. His informant’s message had arrived yesterday, and he had been sore displeased. It had made it necessary for him to miss the ball where he had hoped to dance with Lady Kate, as well as their ride in the park. And now, he must miss her for at least a couple of days more.

  As he rode, he found his mind straying to the intriguing woman. Her moves were so graceful that he had detected a long slim waist under her high-waisted muslin gown. Yes, she was ideally formed. The thing that differentiated her from the veriest lightskirt, however, was that happy energy that she possessed, communicated through her animated speech and laughing eyes. What a variety of interests the girl had. Society women were such bores, by and large. He usually preferred the dramatics and sauciness of actresses.

  Now that he was out of the presence of Lady Kate, he questioned whether he could have slipped into love so easily. He hoped to have a long life, and certainly did not want to be leg-shackled to a shrew or a magpie. But then, he remembered that Venus-like form and found himself lost in delectable fantasies.

  Near midnight, he put the woman from his mind when he met his informant at the specified point on the cliffs along the Devon coast. Jerome was a thin, quicksilver creature who came and went with such skill that he made an ideal spy. Rising from the boulders where he had been waiting, he approached Jack.

  “You’re in time, Your lordship. The sloop hasn’t appeared, and I’ve been here since before dark.”

  “Let’s get back behind those boulders. Good spot.”

  Once they were settled, he asked, “Anyone down there on the beach?”

  “It’s possible. But only if they’ve been hidden in the caves long since. I took a stroll in my role as harmless beachcomber, picking up the odd shell, at about four p.m. No one visible. And I’ve kept the path in my view ever since.”

  Jack eyed the black, moonless sky. “No stars. It must have clouded over. That breeze is becoming brisk.” He worried about Delilah, overheated from her gallop, standing unsheltered in the wind around a distant hedge. “Possibly bad weather across the channel. Perhaps they’ve postponed the operation until tomorrow night.”

  “Dawn’s at four a.m. We should watch ’til then.”

  Jack was tired from his breakneck ride. Grateful for the cold wind on his face to keep him awake, he pulled out his hip flask and offered it to Jerome. His cohort took a swig.

  “That’s never French brandy?”

  Jack smiled. “Of course not.” Taking a swig himself, he replaced the flask, and pulled his hat down so that it covered the white of his forehead.

  Only several minutes later, they heard the scramble of small stones dislodged by rapid footsteps on the nearby path. Putting their heads up slightly over the tops of the boulders, Jerome and Jack counted five men making for the beach. Jack signaled to Jerome to wait.

  Soon a signal light appeared from the sea, not far from shore. Jack’s heart pounded with excitement. The men on shore signaled back, and as what he imagined to be a sloop neared, they heard the splashes of the men wading out to meet it. Under cover of this noise, Jack and Jerome made their descent down the rocky path. Without light, it was treacherous and Jack concentrated on keeping his footing.

  At last, they reached the beach. The Englishmen making for shore were carrying heavy casks of brandy on their shoulders. As the first one neared where they stood in the darkness, Jack whispered, “Qu’est que ce?”

  The man tried to bolt, but Jerome had him in an armlock in an instant, hand over his mouth. Together Jerome, a Navy man, and Jack swiftly bound and gagged him. Jack repeated his question to each man who waded ashore, but none betrayed a knowledge of French. All, however, were successfully gagged and bound.

  They were not so lucky with the sloop. Jerome and Jack waded out, presumably to complete the unloading, when a lanky Frenchman stood and whistled a signal. Receiving no answer, the smugglers commenced to wield their oars and were lost in the misty darkness in minutes. Though Jack swam through the icy waters as fast as he was able, he did not catch them.

  Shivering on the shore fifteen minutes later, he realized what had tipped the Frenchmen off. The smuggler’s faces were blackened. Theirs were not. That was a mistake he would not make again. Lifting the pistol he had left on shore, he commanded the men, in the name of the Regent, to stand and follow him up the path. Jerome, similarly armed, walked behind.

  For the rest of the night, they sat in The Gulls, in the back parlor that Jerome had reserved ahead of time. Hot rum punch and blankets were provided for all. This was the first indication to the prisoners that Jack and Jerome were not excise men. Jack watched them keenly as they took this in. They seemed universally relieved, then puzzled.

  As he questioned each of them separately in French, none of them betrayed any knowledge of that language. His English language inquisition did no good either. Not one of the men gave any indication that he was in the business of selling British secrets to the French.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE

  KNOWS NOT WHAT TO THINK

  Surely Lord Northbrooke will have finished his mysterious business by now and will come to Lady Hillcourt’s ball! Kate looked through her wardrobe, frustration creasing her brow. Five days had passed since she had met him, but considering the two balls, the rout, the picnic, and the musicale she had attended since, it felt more like five weeks. She should have mistrusted events that appeared to be settling themselves so admirably. No one else had stirred her interest in the slightest. In fact, she was beginning already to tire of this society game, where people said what was expected and not necessarily what was meant. She was also uncomfortable with the role she was playing, herself. She even played it with Caro and her aunt. No one in the London of 1810 had the least idea of who Lady Katherine Derramore really was. They probably did not care, either.

  Earlier today, she had visited the Italian section of the National Gallery, in company with Aunt Clarice. Heart hungry for artistic chatter, she had found herself discoursing on the Renaissance artists she had been pleased to find. Her aunt, who preferred music and interior design to paintings, had listened to Kate with patience, making a few comments of her own on the transition in the use of color from the medieval through the Renaissance and on to the Baroque period. What would Aunt Clarice think when she found she harbored an oil painter in her home? Kate knew well that ladies were supposed stick to watercolors and were never meant to have high artistic aspirations. Maybe tomorrow she would test the waters, if the weather permitted, and do a small sketch in the garden.

  After the museum, she had returned home and closeted herself in her room. The Italian pictures had stirred up her passions. Closing her eyes, memories of Francesco teased her once more. This time, Kate recalled their first meeting. She was only seventeen, and the Countess Cortini’s ball was the first she had attended. Held in the garden of her villa on the hill above Florence, just outside of Fiesole, it was enchantment itself. Japanese lanterns lit the garden, the heavy fragrance of roses filled the air, and the summer moon was full. It was a masquerade. The setting was perfect for her first glimpse of Francesco. With an Italian’s intrinsic sense of drama and fashion, he had dressed as a Renaissance minstrel, in a full-sleeved blouse, a red-and-gold waistcoat and short pantaloons, with a scarlet cape and feathered hat.

>   It had been love at first sight. Sitting in an arbor, they had talked of art, and he had played his mandolin. Desire had first awakened in her that night and had been simmering in her breast ever since.

  Caro entered her room. “Aunt Sukey is to be our chaperone tonight. Do you want to attempt to guess what outlandish thing she will wear?”

  Kate switched off her memories and reentered the character of an English debutante. “Whatever it is, she will carry it off. I want to grow up to be like your aunt. I think she has the ideal life for a woman in these times. She has so much freedom within society.”

  “But, Kate, you must marry to get your inheritance! And what of Joey?”

  She let out a gusty sigh. “Yes, I cannot forget dear Joey.”

  * * *

  Kate had finally decided upon a gown of pale gold sarcenet, fastened across the bodice with gold Chinese frog buttons and loops. A simple, narrow skirt descended from her high waistline, leaving her intentionally free of flounces, ribbons, and lace. She thought it elegant, but Caro had pronounced it plain. With it, she wore the startling topaz and diamond pendant together with the earrings her father had purchased for her in Florence on the Ponte Vecchio.

  Staring at her reflection, she was dissatisfied. She could see no difference between herself and every other debutante, with nothing to distinguish her. Perhaps she should cut off her hair. She longed to do something dramatic and unexpected.

  Lady Susannah did not disappoint. She wore an eccentric garment of dark gray satin. With its daringly cut square neckline; pointed, waist-length bodice; and full skirts, it had a distinctly Georgian appearance. Kate was certain the woman had resurrected it from the wardrobe of her salad days. The tiny woman had dressed her iron-gray hair in a bun, with ringlets on each side like two rows of sausages.

  “It is good of you to chaperone Caro and me,” Kate told her on the way to the ball. “I know that this is not what you would wish to be doing. You find Society a great bore, do you not?”