Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  His eyes held hers, then he nodded. “I’ll wait.”

  He drew back; she imagined him heading back to the hard bench. She got the distinct impression he’d thought she was trying to evade him—make him wait until he grew bored, gave up all thought of interfering, and left. Lips lifting, she turned back to the bills.

  Fifteen minutes later, she rose, bade the secretary good bye, and went out. Reggie uncurled his legs and stood as she approached; falling in beside her, he closed his hand about her elbow and escorted her down the steps. As if he didn’t intend to let her go until he learned all he wished. Hailing a hackney, he assisted her into it, then followed and closed the door.

  “Now!” He frowned at her. “What the devil did you think to achieve by shocking Elderby into incoherence by confronting him with—”

  He broke off. She continued, “With Benjamin, a close relative?”

  Lips thin, Reggie nodded. “Indeed.”

  She thought back. “He was truly shocked, wasn’t he? He didn’t know.”

  “He nearly had heart failure. And yes, I agree— he didn’t know the boy existed. He was shocked by an unknown, not surprised and angry that something he knew about had surfaced.”

  “Exactly!” Pleased to have her reading of Elderby’s reaction confirmed, she eagerly continued, “So if Benjy is not Elderby’s son, then…”

  To her surprise, Reggie frowned. He studied her eyes, then stated, “If you’re asking me, I wouldn’t like to guess.”

  It was her turn to frown. “But that only leaves Thomas, doesn’t it? And given his reputation, it hardly seems a long bow to draw—”

  “Before you get too far down that road, there’re a few points you should consider. Yes, Thomas could be Benjamin’s father, but if so, the liaison happened when Thomas was in his early twenties and hardly difficult to approach. The boy says he was living with his mother in Clerkenwell—had she told Thomas? If so, rake or not, I find it hard to believe Thomas would not have done something—it’s not as if these things are not commonplace enough. The Caverlock estates are scattered over half the country; easy enough to send the boy and his mother somewhere to live in reasonable safety.”

  “That’s assuming Thomas thinks as you do.”

  Reggie studied her, then replied, “Thomas and I are not that different.”

  She blinked. Lord Thomas Caverlock was a gazetted rake.

  “Aside from anything else,” Reggie went on, “there’s the undeniable fact you illustrated this afternoon. Caverlocks breed true. Everyone knows that. Forehead, eyebrows, nose, mouth, and chin— they’re all cast from the same mold. Thomas, and Hugh, too, if they’d known of a boy child, would know there was no hope of denying paternity.”

  Anne digested that; as the carriage turned into Mount Street, she asked, “There aren’t any other branches of the family, are there?”

  “No. Just the ducal line.”

  She drew in a breath, focused on Reggie. “So what do you advise? I don’t intend to let the matter rest.”

  The look he bent on her stated he was perfectly aware of that last. “Give Elderby a chance to consider, to take stock and determine the truth. He’s a dry stick, but he’ll do it.”

  “The truth?”

  “Which one of the three of them is Benjamin’s sire.”

  “Three?”

  The carriage rocked to a halt outside Calverton House; Reggie reached for the door. “You’ve forgotten old Portsmouth. There’s a decent possibility Benjamin’s father wears the purple.”

  She honestly hadn’t considered that; it cast the potential for scandal should the Caverlocks resist in an even stronger light.

  Three nights later, Anne stood in the receiving line wending up Lady Hendrick’s stairs, the possible breadth of the secret she herself had let out of its box very much in her mind.

  Hugh, Lord Elderby, was married and had been for over ten years. She placed him in his late thirties. His wife, Imogen, was a woman of few smiles, and those that dawned were rather sour. Reggie had called Hugh a dry stick, but Imogen was drier, and even more sticklike. Anne doubted the child was Hugh’s, although it was possible he’d had a liaison and had never been told of Benjy’s birth, but regardless of which of the three Caverlock males proved to be Benjy’s father, Imogen was not going to be pleased.

  At her mother’s heels, Anne reached their hostess and exchanged greetings, determinedly ignoring the old familiar panic welling inside. Lady Hendrick was delighted to see her; she’d eschewed large parties and balls for some years, seeing no need to feed the silly nervousness she’d never grown out of.

  Tonight, however, would be different; she wasn’t here to look for a husband, to allow herself to be weighed and considered. She was here for a purpose; she had a goal to pursue. She’d dressed for the task in a gown of mulberry silk that she knew became her, as did the latest fashion of fitted waists and skirts held wide with multiple petticoats.

  Leaving Lady Hendrick, she paused at the entrance to the ballroom, drew in a deep breath, lifted her head—and let her gaze take in the sea of people, let her ears hear the cacophony of voices.

  To her surprise, neither sight nor sound evoked as much fear as she’d expected. As much trepidation as in the past.

  Somewhat reassured, she followed her mother into the throng.

  From the shadows of an archway where he stood chatting with friends, Reggie watched Anne glide after her mother, Minerva, the Dowager Lady Calverton, to a chaise by the wall. He hesitated, then, with an easy word, excused himself and moved into the crowd.

  For the past two days, he’d been watching, wondering…it had surprised him how fixed his mind had become on Anne Ashford and her endeavors. Especially on her attempt to jog the collective Caverlock conscience.

  Invited as he was to every major ball and party, it had been easy to guess which events Hugh, Imogen, and Thomas would attend. Anne would not attend any such affair by choice; if she hadn’t appeared, he would have concluded that Hugh had acted swiftly and the family had assured Benjamin’s future in some acceptable way.

  He now knew that hadn’t happened. Yet. He had a deeper appreciation than she of the difficulties Hugh would face in raising the matter and seeing it appropriately dealt with. However, he was also acquainted with the Ashford temperament—none of them was patient.

  What scheme Anne was hatching he didn’t know—he just knew there would be one.

  Reaching the chaise, he bowed to Minerva; she was one of his mother’s closest friends. Lady Farwell and Mrs. Pickering sat beside her; while uttering the usual greetings and platitudes, he wondered what Minerva made of her daughter’s presence. She would know there had to be a reason, yet she was probably glad of any circumstance that brought Anne out, into the ton.

  Eventually drawing back from the older ladies, he turned to Anne, standing beside the chaise. Her curtsy, his bow dispensed with, he offered his arm. “Would you care to stroll?”

  Her smile was quick, illuminating her face. “Please.”

  Minerva inclined her head graciously as he met her eye. Anne’s hand on his sleeve, he steered her into the crowd; it quickly closed about them. Leaning closer, he inquired, “Just what are you planning?”

  She looked up, searched his eyes.

  He felt his expression harden. “You needn’t imagine I’ll swallow any tale that you were suddenly visited by an unquenchable urge to reacquaint yourself with the gadding throng. Given you’re here, you’re here for a reason.” He held her gaze. “What?”

  Her lips thinned, but her decision to include him in her confidence flowed across her eyes. The sight was unexpectedly satisfying.

  “Lord Elderby hasn’t contacted us. Doubtless he’s imagining the matter will simply disappear if he ignores it.” She looked ahead, head rising, and started to scan the faces. “I decided it was time to speak to at least one other member of the family. Both Thomas and Imogen will most likely be here.”

  Reggie drew in a breath—through his teeth. His featu
res had set, but he was too wise in the ways of determined women to simply say no. He clung to impassivity. “Imogen should be last on your list. While she would most likely make no bones about a mistake of Thomas’s, if Benjamin is Hugh’s, or worse, Portsmouth’s, then she might well see him as a threat. Her eldest son must be only a few months younger than Benjamin.”

  Anne frowned, but after a moment nodded. “It’ll have to be Lord Thomas, then.”

  If he’d mentally goggled at the notion of her bearding Elderby with the existence of a family by-blow, he reeled at the thought of her approaching Lord Thomas Caverlock with the same news. “No!”

  She turned her head and stared at him. “No? What do you mean—no? Of course I’m going to speak to him—”

  “No. You’re not.” Her hand slid from his sleeve; Reggie gripped her elbow and had no intention of letting go. “You are not going to march up to a rake like Caverlock and blithely inform him you happen to have stumbled on a child of either his, his brother’s, or his father’s that the family has apparently misplaced, and demand he take responsibility.”

  “Why not?” Anne drew herself up. “I managed perfectly well with Elderby.”

  “That was different! This is not the time or place—”

  “Are you suggesting I make an appointment to meet with Lord Thomas privately?”

  “Of course not!” He glared at her.

  She glared back. “I’ve come here tonight for the sole purpose of speaking with either Imogen or Thomas. I am not going to let the Caverlocks simply forget about Benjy. You have no idea how many other children are in similar straits—forgotten, when the families are more than wealthy enough to provide for them.”

  She held his gaze fiercely—and fearlessly; it was the first time he’d ever seen her so. So animated, so alive. It momentarily stunned him.

  “I am not going to let Benjy down!”

  Her eyes flashed, then she twisted her elbow free of his grip and sailed into the crowd.

  Inwardly grim, outwardly impassive—still a trifle stunned—Reggie fought a sudden impulse to seize her anew, haul her out of the ballroom and…

  He shook aside the dizzying compulsion, drew a deep breath, and stepped out in her wake—

  “Mr. Carmarthen! Such a happy chance!”

  Halting precipitously, he focused on the stout matron who’d sidestepped directly into his path. “Er…” Who the devil was she? Then he recalled, and bowed perfunctorily. “Lady Hexham. A pleasure.” Even as he said it, he lifted his head and scanned the shifting throng. He could no longer see Anne.

  “And this is Melissa, my daughter. I daresay you remember her.”

  He bowed, shook the young lady’s hand, and murmured the right things. He’d seen Thomas earlier and knew where he’d be—would Anne guess and make for the card room?

  “I’ve just returned from the north—such a full summer we’ve had! But we heard the news about Carlisle—have there been any further developments?”

  The question recalled Reggie to reality with a thump. He stared into Lady Hexham’s hopeful face. “I don’t believe so.”

  Dear God! While he extricated himself with what grace he could muster, his mind raced. Lady Hexham enjoyed a good gossip; the news of his family’s pending change in state would soon be rife.

  And if the look in Lady Hexham’s eyes—let alone Melissa’s—was anything to judge by, he was going to be in deep trouble.

  Hounded. Hunted.

  With a charming smile, he left her ladyship; immediately he turned his back, he replaced the smile with an aggravated frown. Never mind his potential pursuers, where the hell was Anne?

  “I would be very much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes of your time, my lord.” Anne smiled evenly at Lord Thomas Caverlock. “In private.”

  Thomas, a handsome devil of a rake who showed no sign of succumbing to any of the highly respectable lures constantly thrown his way, looked down at her, an unreadable expression in his changeable blue-gray eyes. “What a very…tantalizing request, my dear.”

  He studied her face for an instant longer, then glanced around. The card room was full, the tables host to a goodly throng, both male and female, most engrossed with the play. “Come.” He offered his arm. “Let’s stroll through the ballroom and see if we can find a quiet corner.”

  Anne inclined her head and set her fingers on his sleeve. Despite her brave words, she was relieved he’d fixed on a corner of the ballroom, and not on some more deserted spot.

  As they walked through the crowd, Thomas quizzed her—on her penchant for avoiding the ton, on her thoughts on society, on her family. Not once did he touch on her reason for seeking him out. Anne parried his queries easily enough, but wondered…

  Abruptly Thomas changed tack and steered her through an archway into the corridor beyond. Her suspicions leapt to life, but before she could collect herself enough to protest, he threw open another door, and she found herself deftly swept into a small parlor.

  She had to scuttle quickly forward or Thomas would have been on her heels—far too close. The door clicked shut in the instant she realized the parlor was quite deserted. It had been years since she’d graced tonnish entertainments— years since she’d worried about such things as compromising situations.

  With a jolt of unwelcome surprise, she realized she was in one.

  Lips parting in complaint, she swung to face Thomas—

  Only to find him much closer than she’d expected.

  His arm locked about her waist; smoothly he drew her to him.

  It wasn’t the gentle laughter in his eyes, but the intent she sensed behind it—an intent she’d never before been the focus of but recognized instinctively—that frightened her; she braced her hands on his chest and pushed back. “My lord—Thomas! Release me at once!”

  He chuckled and drew her closer.

  She tried to struggle, but his arms were fully around her. “No! You don’t understand!”

  “Oh, but I do, sweet Anne—most assuredly I do. You’ve hidden yourself away for years, but now you’ve decided to enjoy the fruits of life, and I’m flattered, believe me, quite flattered, that you’ve chosen me—”

  “I haven’t!” Anne kept her voice down with an effort, assisted by the fact that Thomas had at least stopped drawing her closer. “Good heavens! As if I would…I mean—” She broke off, painfully aware his misunderstanding was at least partly her fault. “I wanted to talk to you. To tell you something!”

  The laughter in Thomas’s eyes faded, to be replaced by wariness. “What?”

  He didn’t release her; he was still too close— she could barely breathe. It wasn’t fear she felt— she wasn’t a ninny; she knew Thomas wouldn’t force her—but the feeling of being restrained wasn’t pleasant; if she thought about it too much, she might swoon. “Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed.

  From the door came a sigh. “Let her go, Thomas.”

  His arms still around her, Thomas turned, allowing Anne to peer past his shoulder.

  Reggie stood inside the room, leaning back, nonchalantly graceful, his shoulders against the closed door.

  Neither of them had heard him come in.

  Reggie’s gaze, exceedingly level, was fixed on Thomas. Thomas met it. For one instant, Anne could have sworn some intrinsically masculine communication took place, then Thomas’s arms slowly fell from her, and he took a step back, putting an acceptable distance between them.

  He frowned, first at Reggie, then, more definitely, at her. “What’s going on?”

  She straightened, clasping her hands before her, drawing in a deep breath. “I—”

  “If you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will keep your lips shut.”

  The force behind the words made her start; she stared, utterly astounded, at Reggie. He’d spoken in his usual even tone, yet the authority beneath it—even more the fury in his eyes—shocked her into silence.

  He noted it; apparen
tly satisfied, he looked at Thomas.

  “Have you spoken to Hugh recently?”

  “Hugh?” Increasingly confused, Thomas shook his head. “He called last afternoon but missed me. He left a message but I haven’t found the time—”

  “Find the time,” Reggie said. “There’s something you need to know, and you’d best hear it from him.”

  Thomas frowned. “Imogen’s here—”

  “No. Imogen may not be in Hugh’s confidence—not in this.” Reggie pulled out his watch, glanced at it. “Daresay Hugh’ll be at White’s by now.” He looked at Thomas. “Don’t you think?”

  Thomas nodded. “Most likely.”

  “Well, then.” Tucking his watch back in his pocket, Reggie stepped away from the door, opening and holding it wide.

  Thomas considered him. “You won’t tell me?”

  Reggie met his gaze, shook his head. “Family matter. Less said about it by anyone else, the better.”

  Thomas studied his eyes, then raised his brows. “Very well.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ll hie myself to White’s, then.” Swinging around, he swept Anne a bow. “Good evening, Miss Ashford.” He straightened; his gaze lingered— unholy appreciation lit his eyes. “Until next time, sweet Anne.”

  With a devilish smile, he nodded to Reggie and walked from the room.

  Reggie very carefully shut the door, grasping the moment to strengthen his hold on his temper. He hadn’t even known he possessed one—not of this type, not of this magnitude; subduing it, wrestling it back under control, wasn’t a simple matter.

  Turning from the door, he looked at Anne, standing, hands still clapsed before her, staring at him. He couldn’t truly see anything else in the room. He started toward her. “I believe I told you not to attempt to explain this matter to Thomas?”

  He kept his voice level, even, soft; it still brought her chin up.

  “It was necessary—”

  “No. It wasn’t.” He was hanging on to his temper by a thread—an increasingly frayed one. “As you just learned, Hugh has been trying to contact Thomas—it’s unlikely to be about any other subject. Neither Thomas nor Hugh will think there’s any urgency about this matter—Benjamin is presently quite safe.”