by Anne Gracie
Gil’s valet had taken one discreetly horrified look and whisked the clothing away to be cleaned and thoroughly pressed with a hot iron, as much, he said with dark disapproval, to remove any lurking livestock as for the appearance of the garments. For they were, he’d murmured to his master, distressingly lower class.
Zach had smiled. You could tell a lot about people from the way they treated those who were beneath them on the social scale.
“It’s the perfect degree of shabbiness,” Zach explained to Gil. “I don’t want to be mistaken for a gentleman, but neither do I want to be denied entrance at your lodgings.” He’d kept his own buff breeches and his boots, which were comfortable and well worn. Gil’s valet had cleaned and polished them to a brilliant shine, but Zach had dusted them up a little, saying such a shine was above his touch.
Gil rolled his eyes. “Believe me, no gentleman would be seen dead in that outfit. But for a clerk who’s down on his luck, or a seedy debt collector, it’s perfect.”
Zach frowned. “Seedy?”
“The bristles. A respectable clerk would shave.”
“Ah.” He ran a hand over his bristly chin. The bristles might need to go in that case. He was sure Miss Jane Chance wouldn’t want to be seen with a seedy-looking character. “I thought it more . . . piratical?”
“Oh, of course, piratical. Definitely. What was I thinking?” Gil said dryly. “Tell me, do you intend to keep the earring?”
Zach fingered his earring. “I did wonder if it might be fashionable. Saw a chap with an earring on the stairs earlier.”
“Big, dark-haired fellow? Dressed as a gentleman, apart from an eye-blinding waistcoat?”
“That’s the one.”
“Flynn, an Irishman. Took over Freddy Monkton-Coombes’s rooms and his valet when Monkton-Coombes got married a couple of months ago. You know Monkton-Coombes, don’t you? A Cambridge man.”
“Never went to university, remember?” By the time Gil and his other school friends had gone to university, Zach had been living by his wits, more or less, on the Continent for several years.
“Of course. Forgot for a minute. Well, Flynn’s the only chap I know who wears an earring. Apart from sailors—you sure you don’t wish to dance a hornpipe?”
“Mockery does not become you, Gilbert.” Zach removed his earring.
Over dinner, Zach explained what he’d learned from the lawyer.
When he’d finished, Gil signaled for his manservant to clear the table, then he poured them both a brandy. “So, a murder charge. That complicates things.”
“Nonsense, it’s just a misunderstanding. Cecily is alive and living in Wales, as you well know, having forwarded her letters over the years.”
Gil nodded. “Still, since your cousin has moved to have you declared dead, it could stir the murder thing up. So it’s wise to do as the lawyer says and lie low.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “The fellow’s ridiculously overcautious. I could easily fetch Cecily myself from Wales, but he insists on sending his own man. Had some crazy notion that I’d be accused of coaching a woman to impersonate her.”
“Ah, he’d be thinking of the Breckenridge affair.”
“The what?”
“Case last year. Duke of Breckenridge’s long-lost heir turned up after being missing for twenty years. Old man in tears of joy, fatted calf killed—you can imagine the fuss.” He gave Zach a shrewd look. “Turned out to be a fraud. Left a nasty taste in everyone’s mouth. As well to err on the cautious side.”
“It’s ludicrous. Cecily is alive, she isn’t a fraud, so there’s no case. I was intending to go and fetch her anyway—damn sight more efficient to do it myself rather than hang around here kicking my heels and lying low.” Zach snorted. “Skulking around, hiding, more like.”
“How shocking,” Gil said. “How anyone could expect you to skulk, or hide, or lie low? Tsk tsk tsk!”
His words forced a reluctant grin from Zach. “That was different. It was my job. There was a worthwhile purpose to it.”
“And keeping your neck from getting stretched is not a worthwhile purpose?”
“There’s no question of my neck getting stretched,” Zach said irritably. “Cecily’s alive.”
They subsided into companionable silence.
After a while Gil said, “So you’ll stay for the hearing?”
“To assert my status as the living heir? Of course.”
“Good.” Gil pulled out a card and wrote on the back of it. “Then take this to my tailor tomorrow—his address is on the back—tell him I sent you, and order yourself some decent clothes. You’ll need to look like a gentleman.” He passed Zach the card, and sat back. “And after that?”
Zach sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “Not sure, to be honest.”
“Wainfleet?”
“Can’t leave it to rot.” Much as he felt like it.
Wainfleet had always been very much his father’s domain. Now it was his. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
“If I could sell it, I would, sight unseen, but the damned place is entailed, so I’ll have to put in a manager, I suppose.”
“And then you’ll do what? Return to the same work? After eight years of it?”
Zach shrugged. “Why not?” But truth to tell, he didn’t know what he wanted. Yesterday his plans had been simple, his future crystal clear: Get the Hungarian papers to Gil, then return to the Continent and take up where he’d left off. Now . . . now the past was rising up to haunt him. There was a court case, possibly two. And obligations.
And a girl with wide, fathomless blue eyes . . .
“Aren’t you tired of that life? It’s not the same now, since we’ve defeated Boney.”
“There’s still a need for intelligence and information.”
“Of course, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Nothing,” Gil said. “If you enjoy it, I suppose . . . I just thought now, since you have alternatives . . .”
And there was the rub, Zach thought. Gil’s words had struck closer than Gil knew. Zach had been getting weary of traveling, of dwelling in the shadows, living a life of adventure and uncertainty. It had been exciting at first, but after eight years—and a war—the zest of danger had palled.
He’d served his country well but now, being here in England after twelve years abroad, had . . . unsettled him. Against all his expectations, it felt almost like—no, that was ridiculous. He’d never felt at home in England. Or anywhere else. Certainly not at Wainfleet.
What to do with the rest of his life? He had no idea.
He drained his glass. “I hate making plans. They inevitably fail.” It was easier to go where chance took him.
“Not inevitably,” Gil reproved him. Gil prided himself on his ability to plan. “Still, if you’re planning to stay and thwart your cousin’s claim—not to mention sorting out that murder charge—there’ll be plenty of time for you to make up your mind. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. The guest quarters are a little poky, but—”
Zach laughed. “I’ve slept in coal cellars and haystacks. Your spare room is palatial by comparison.”
Silence fell. They sipped their brandy. The fire hissed and crackled gently. Outside, the patter of rain against the windows and the incessant rumble of the city that never slept.
“Tell me, Gil, what do you know of the Chance family?”
Gil frowned. “Chance family?”
“In particular a Miss Jane Chance, lives with a Lady Beatrice someone on Berkeley Square.”
Gil nodded. “Freddy Monkton-Coombes, who I just mentioned—fellow who used to live downst—”
“Chance, I said, not Monkton—”
“I’m getting there. Freddy married Miss Damaris Chance—Miss Jane’s sister. Lady Beatrice—well, strictly speaking, she’s the Dowager Lady D
avenham, but she’s a law unto herself, the old girl, and prefers to be called Lady Beatrice—daughter of an earl, you know. She’s said to be the girls’ aunt.”
“Said to be?” Zach frowned.
Gil made a vague gesture with his wineglass. “All a bit havey-cavey, if you ask me.”
“Everything is havey-cavey to you,” Zach pointed out. “You’re probably suspicious of your own mother.”
“Not my mother,” Gil retorted, unperturbed. “Above rubies, my mother. M’father, now . . .”
Zach gave a snort of amusement. “So tell me about these sisters and their havey-cavey aunt.”
“Oh, there’s nothing havey-cavey about Lady Bea, apart from being a little eccentric. Ancient noble family, counts half the ton as her friends and the other half she’s related to. But the sisters appeared out of nowhere six months ago—supposedly from Venice. The story is they’re the daughters of Lady Bea’s half sister Grizelda and a Venetian marchese.” He paused and eyed Zach over his wineglass. “The Marchese di Chancelotto.” His lips twitched.
“The Marchese di Chancelotto?” Zach choked on his brandy. The name was outlandish. Nothing like any Italian or Venetian name he’d ever heard.
Gil nodded. “Precisely so.”
“So the girls are adventuresses?”
Gil shrugged. “Not clear. They’re very popular. Lady Bea conducts what she calls a literary society. Everyone who’s anyone attends, and the girls read the books aloud, so even though the season hasn’t yet commenced, they’re very well known, especially with the older set, who positively dote on them.”
“And nobody’s ever called them on their story?”
“Well, it’s not called ‘polite society’ for nothing. In any case, the eldest girl married Lady Beatrice’s nephew, Max, Lord Davenham, who must know the truth, and another married Freddy Monkton-Coombes, Davenham’s best friend.”
“Which suggests that there’s nothing havey-cavey about the girls.”
“That or they’re such charmers their husbands don’t care,” Gil said. He took a sip of brandy. “But you asked about the younger sister, Jane, did you not? She’s not out yet—none of them are—but she’s reputed to be a beauty, a diamond of the first water.”
“She is.”
Gil glanced up sharply. “How the devil do you know that?”
Zach shrugged. “Ran into her in a dark alley.”
Gil gave him a skeptical look. “Planning to run into her again?”
Zach didn’t respond.
“Even though you said the lawyer advised you to lie low?”
“I also told you, the whole thing is a mistake.”
Gil drained his glass. “You never did like following orders, did you?”
Zach gave him a lazy grin. “I followed yours, didn’t I?”
“No, you got the results I asked for,” Gil corrected him. “There’s a significant difference.”
* * *
Zach tossed and turned in his bed. It was ridiculous that he couldn’t get to sleep. He could sleep anywhere—he prided himself on it—a moving coach, a haystack, a cold cellar, even with enemies close by who planned to kill him. Anywhere. Anytime. It was a skill he’d honed over the years. Sleep when the opportunity presented itself.
And yet here, in Gil Radcliffe’s very comfortable spare bed, with its feather mattress, fine linen sheets, warm blankets—and in perfect safety—he couldn’t sleep. He turned over again, punching his pillow into a better shape, and contemplated his sleepless state. He was tense, restless.
It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. Perhaps that was the problem. No doubt Gil could direct him to some establishment where he could have his needs met . . .
He considered it. The idea didn’t appeal. Zach was choosy about the women he took to bed.
Too choosy.
Curse it. He punched the pillow again. He knew what the problem was and there was no possible solution to it. The last woman he should be thinking about was Miss Jane Chance. She was an innocent; a sweet, young, sheltered miss, the last person a jaded fellow like him should be thinking lustful thoughts of.
A gypsy—if not in truth, in lifestyle.
But Gil was right, he wasn’t good at doing what he was supposed to.
He shouldn’t be thinking about Jane Chance, but he was. He shouldn’t be thinking about returning to Berkeley Square in the morning either, but he was.
He’d spent years relying on his instincts, and now they were at war, and all over this one girl.
Admittedly she was ravishingly beautiful.
But he’d known many beautiful women in his life, and though he admired beauty in a woman, it didn’t necessarily call to him, didn’t compel him to possess a woman, or even to want to know her better. It certainly didn’t usually keep him awake at night.
But those wide blue eyes, blue as the Mediterranean on a summer’s day, and just as easy to drown in . . . and that complexion, silken English peaches and cream. And the softest-looking, most kissable, cherry-dark mouth he’d seen in a long time . . .
He groaned and turned over. He was leaving England as soon as practicable. He shouldn’t be thinking about any female except some temporary woman who wanted nothing more than a night or two of bed sports.
But he couldn’t get Miss Jane Chance out of his mind.
How long had it been since he’d felt that . . . instant connection with a woman? Had he ever? Not lust—well, not just lust, but something . . . else.
Whatever it was, it had shaken him. When had he ever lost concentration like that? Not since he was a boy.
He’d lived with danger and deception so long that it was like a second skin to him now. He never forgot who he was supposed to be and that danger was ever present.
But today . . . his accent had slipped—several times—and he’d forgotten for a moment—actually forgotten—about those young thugs.
And all because of a pair of wide blue eyes, open and trusting.
And that mouth, tender and ripe and moist . . .
All right, so she appealed to his baser desires; she also intrigued him. On the surface she was the loveliest specimen of womanhood he’d seen in a long time. And yet she’d attacked a bunch of thugs over an ugly stray mongrel—and was going to keep said mongrel in her elegant Mayfair mansion, what’s more.
And according to Gil—and who would know better?—she had secrets, and not the kind of tame little secrets any gently raised girl would have. A fabricated background with a faux Venetian marchese for a father, no less. And that scuffle with the street toughs had revealed a streetwise awareness that no sheltered miss ought to have.
The skill with which she played the innocent young girl, how much of that was real? He thought again of the way that slow, enticing blush had risen from the neck of her dress, and he stirred restlessly.
He’d known a lot of women skilled in the arts of arousal and deception—it was inevitable in his line of work—but he’d never met a woman who could blush on command. Could she be as innocent as she seemed?
Were those blushes and that rosy, delectable mouth signs of a promise as yet unawakened?
Probably, he told himself grimly. And that was the very reason he shouldn’t be going within a mile of Miss Jane Chance. She was young—eighteen or nineteen—and if not totally sheltered, she was, he was sure, untouched. And if he’d learned one thing in his lifetime with women, it was that you don’t dally with young innocents.
Women tended to view bed sports differently, and some—especially the young ones—tended to confuse sex, even harmless flirtation, with . . . emotions. They had a tendency to deceive themselves about the meaning and significance of such acts.
He’d seen that in his father’s young second wife, Cecily, met her as a dewy young bride, dazzled and infatuated by her handsome older husband.
His fath
er was certainly pleased with his pretty young bride.
Zach at sixteen might have developed a bit of a crush on her himself. She was pretty and gentle and helpless in a way that might have appealed to a young lad, except that he had just discovered the joys of bed sports with a comely local widow five years his senior, and he only had eyes for her.
Zach was just relieved that his father was too busy with his new bride to bother making Zach’s life a misery. It gave him a new sense of freedom. He could stay away from the house as long as he wanted; his father never cared. So Zach kept out of the newlyweds’ way.
When he finally noticed his father’s young bride, it was because she was moving with a stiffness he recognized. And when he looked at her, really looked, he’d seen that the happy glow of young bridehood had disappeared and that she’d gone quiet and was no longer so pretty, but was somehow pinched-looking.
She’d sat silently at the dinner table that night as his father broached his second bottle of wine for the evening, pleating and repleating her table napkin with nervous fingers, watching her husband with quick, furtive glances and an expression that Zach recognized with a sick inner certainty. Dread.
And he realized why his father had eased up on him lately. He’d found a fresh victim.
Cecily’s plight, her helplessness in the face of his father’s bullying ways, had awakened Zach’s protective instincts. And look where that had got him.
He had no plans to stay in England. He had no plans at all, and girls—respectable, young, unmarried girls—particularly young, unmarried girls with exotic invented backgrounds—would be all about plans.
So it would be pointless—pointless and foolish—trying to see her again. Much more sensible to go to Wales and fetch Cecily.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
And pictured that rose-silken mouth, lips slightly parted . . .
His body stirred with awareness. He turned over and jammed his eyes shut.
