by Louise Allen
‘Buy some more,’ he said carelessly. ‘You can afford to now.’
‘Yes, I suppose I can. Mr Havers told me I may have pin money. But in any case, I am the housekeeper.’
‘Do I need a housekeeper?’ he asked. ‘Can you not just act as the mistress of the house and order the servants to do what is necessary?’
Mistress of the house? There were so many layers of innuendo and meaning in that phrase that Lina could feel herself blushing. ‘Please, my lord, put me down?’ Lina asked as they reached the edge of the wood and level ground. ‘I would be most embarrassed if the staff saw me like this.’ He set her on her feet at once. It jarred her bruises, but she bit back the exclamation of discomfort in case he scooped her up once more. ‘If I had no work to do, then I would feel I was being a parasite, living off your charity.’
He was still holding her, one big hand cupping each elbow, standing far too close. His breathing, she realised with a thrill of awareness, was very slightly uneven. The effort of carrying her? She doubted it, he was very fit. No, he was still aroused by their encounter.
‘You will be living off Simon’s legacy. I am dismissing you as housekeeper, but you may retain your post as companion, if you like.’ He began to stroll back towards the house and Lina, trying not to hobble, walked beside him.
‘To whom?’
‘To me when I am here. I will be lonely with none of the local gentry prepared to receive me.’ He made no attempt to try to sound either lonely or pathetic.
‘But Gregor is here.’
‘He is going back to London once we have sorted some of the books and papers. He will open up the town houses, hire servants, talk to our business agents.’
‘I thought you never came to England,’ Lina queried. ‘How do you—?’
‘That does not prevent me investing or buying property in this country. I have agents and lawyers and customers here. I shall send the library from here to my house in Mayfair once I secure it.’ She glanced up at his face to find it suddenly serious, introspective. ‘I expect to spend more time in London in future—at the libraries, the British Museum, the learned societies.’
‘But are you not a traveller?’
‘I am also a writer. It is time I wrote more, spoke more at the societies, or I will end up like my great-uncle, having to coerce someone into finishing my work after my death.’
‘You are a scholar, in effect,’ Lina said. She was surprised, she realised; despite what Trimble had said, she had not taken his scholarship seriously. ‘But I thought you a—’
‘Libertine? I am an adventurer, I admit. I am also a traveller and a trader. How very inconsiderate of me to wear so many labels. But we are all multi-faceted, are we not? You seem meek and mild and modest and yet you spit like a hellcat when roused. And you kiss—’ They had reached the stable yard again and he stopped, just past the archway. ‘And you did not answer my question. Why so furious at being called a nun?’
‘Because—’ She could feel herself blushing again. ‘Because of the cant use of nunnery and nun,’ she blurted out and, despite her aching bruises, almost ran from him round the corner and through the service entrance to the house.
‘Cant?’ Quinn stared after Celina. Admittedly he had been out of the country for a long time, but when he was last here the only cant meaning for nunnery was brothel. He had been away from England far too long, that was certain, if young ladies understood the meaning of argot like that. He turned on his heel and went back into the yard where Gregor was lounging on a mounting block in conversation with the head groom.
‘Good day, your lordship.’ The man—Jenks, he remembered—touched his forelock. ‘I was just telling this gentleman about his late lordship’s hunters. Sad day when he decided to sell them, that was. You’ve a fine pair of riding horses, my lord. Arab blood, I can see.’
‘Yes, out of an English hunter mare for size by an Arab stallion for endurance. They are brothers. Tell me, Jenks, I have been coming to the conclusion that I have been away from England so long I am forgetting the language—what cant uses for nun or nunnery are there?’
The man looked incredulous, then grinned. ‘Well, my lord, only meaning I know is for an academy, if you know what I mean, and its young ladies. A cony warren, my lord.’
‘A brothel, in effect? Yes, that was my understanding also.’ So that explained the fury, but it did not explain why a respectable young lady would know what it meant. Gregor was obviously keeping a straight face at the cost of painful self-control. ‘Thank you, Jenks. I have indeed been away too long.’
‘And you can stop looking like that,’ he said to Gregor once they were out of earshot of the groom. ‘I was perfectly aware of that meaning, I was simply wondering if there was another I did not know.’
‘It is a good word for a brothel,’ Gregor said, seriously. ‘Your English is amusing, I find. Perhaps I will seek one out when I am in London and perform my devotions with the pretty nuns. A pity you are in disgrace, my friend, or you could give me introductions and I could chase the society ladies as well.’
‘It will take a little while. I can secure invitations around the edges of society to begin with,’ Quinn said. ‘And then I move in.’ He had given this some thought during the long journey back to England.
There had been time to plot his reinstatement into the ton, time to think about how uncomfortable he could make those who had tricked and condemned him and whose scheming had left his great-uncle to a lonely old age for the sin of defending him. He had not realised until that last letter just how isolated the old man had become, and guilt at his own absence did nothing to lessen his anger.
‘We could have some fun amongst the less respectable, more dashing, ladies.’
‘Almack’s?’ Gregor asked hopefully. ‘I have heard of Almack’s. Many pretty virgins. Rich ones, also.’
‘Almack’s would not let either of us through the doors,’ Quinn assured him. ‘But I would pay a good sum to see you there, a big bad wolf amidst the lambs.’ No, they would not admit either of them…yet. But the new Lord Dreycott with his reputation as a traveller and scholar could insinuate himself into the world of the men of learning, many of whom were influential members of society. If he played his cards right, he could be accepted back almost before those who recalled the old scandal were aware of his presence. Then he must rely on his wits and his money to stay within the charmed inner circle while having his pleasure with its womenfolk and his revenge on its men.
It would be amusing. The prodigal returns, far from penitent and reformed, but possessing now all the wickedness he was unjustly expelled for in the first place.
He had not lied to Celina; he did intend to spend more time in London in scholarly pursuits, in writing, in the libraries, at lectures, about his business interests. But he had no intention of skulking around pretending to be shamed by a ten-year-old scandal. He was not at all embarrassed, merely coldly determined to enjoy every facet of London life, and that included, when he was in the mood, the world of the ton.
And this time, if any wives or daughters of the aristocracy threw themselves at his head, he would have not the slightest scruple about taking everything that they offered. A momentary stab of self-disgust caught him off balance. Once he had been the perfect young English gentleman: gallant, virtuous, scrupulous. Fool, he thought. Look where that got you. Innocence once lost was lost for ever—he was what he had become, the product of hard choices and sharp disillusion.
But meanwhile he had no intention of trying to ingratiate himself with minor Norfolk society. He had Great-Uncle Simon’s memoirs to complete, the library and papers to sort out and the intriguing and mysterious Miss Haddon to… To what? Quinn asked himself as he went upstairs to wash before a belated luncheon. That all depended what she really was. Innocent or something else?
That kiss on the lookout platform high in the trees had been pleasurable, but its ending had not just been frustrating and painful, it had also been confusing. He ran his tongue
between his lips as he made himself think of it analytically, conscious that the memory of Celina’s hot mouth, her soft body, the vicious little nip of her teeth, was as arousing as it was unsatisfying.
She had not reacted like a shocked and sheltered virgin, he concluded, ignoring the heaviness in his groin as he washed in cold water. She had resisted for a moment, but he thought that was surprise and anger. There had been an awareness there, a flare of passion and a calculating cunning to feign surrender so she could lure him in, bite and escape. She had been angry with him, unmistakably, but she had also let him carry her, had talked to him calmly and with interest.
Last night she had seemed to get tipsy and to flirt—was that a ploy, or innocence out of its depth?
No, the mystery of Celina Haddon was most definitely still as intriguing as ever. Quinn raked his hands through his hair, caught sight of himself in the mirror and grinned. It seemed that it would be necessary to kiss Miss Haddon again if he wanted to find out more.
‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ Gregor remarked, emerging from a door a little further along the corridor as Quinn shut his own behind him. ‘Have you seen the room your little virgin has put me in now?’
‘She is not my little anything, at the moment,’ Quinn said, as he looked past the Russian into the room behind. ‘Hades, is that a museum?’ The bed was stranded in the midst of a veritable zoo of immobile creatures of every variety of feather, fur and scales.
‘I think so.’ Gregor kicked a stuffed alligator with one booted foot. ‘She has a sense of humour, Miss Celina.’
‘She is punishing you for teasing the household,’ Quinn observed. ‘Choose another room.’
‘And have her think she has frightened me with her creatures?’ The other man grinned. ‘No, I will thank her lavishly. Perhaps she would like to be entertained in here. She might find it…exciting.’
‘Hands off.’ Quinn spoke mildly, but Gregor made the fencer’s signal of surrender.
‘I would not dream of poaching in my lord’s hunting grounds.’
‘Any more of that my lord nonsense and I’ll crack your thick skull,’ Quinn retorted as they made for the head of the stairs. ‘And I am not hunting.’
Liar, he thought as they made their way into the dining room to find Celina seated at the table, her hair twisted up into a simple knot at the back of her head. A few tendrils escaped and curled at her temples and nape. The colour was high in her cheeks and she met his eyes with wary defiance in her own. Oh, yes, I am hunting and she knows it. But what is my quarry? A little doe or a cunning feline? That is the question.
Chapter Six
As Lina had predicted, the lawyer was followed next day by first Dr Massingbird, the physician, then Mr Armstrong from the bank and finally the Reverend Perrin, looking, as Michael the footman observed after he had shown him to the study, as though he had sat on a poker.
None of them had required a summons. Doctor Massingbird seemed more than happy to call upon a gentleman who offered him a most excellent Amontillado and could compare notes on the Iberian Peninsula where he had once been an army doctor, but Mr Armstrong had the air of a man who knew he must do his duty by his bank and the vicar looked ready to perform an exorcism when he was shown in.
Quinn had not been exaggerating his reputation in the neighbourhood, she realised. She also realised she was thinking of him not as Lord Dreycott, nor even Ashley, but most improperly simply as Quinn. She had been kissed by the man, she told herself, and that certainly argued a degree of intimate acquaintance that explained it, even if it did not excuse it.
She kept finding excuses to pass through the hall and keep an eye on the study door, waiting with bated breath for either the vicar to stalk out of the presence of sin in high dudgeon, as her father most certainly would, or for Quinn to explode with anger after receiving a lecture on his dissolute ways.
Neither occurred.
She was arranging flowers in a vase on the hall table when the vicar finally emerged, looking slightly less rigid than when he had arrived. ‘Mr Perrin.’ She dropped a neat curtsy, her hands full of evergreen stems.
‘Miss Haddon. I trust we will see you in church on Sunday as usual?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ She had attended every Sunday since her arrival, the rhythms of a country Sunday curiously soothing, even though she had been so unhappy in her own village and old Lord Dreycott had flatly refused to accompany her.
The vicar smiled at her and nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent. Miss Haddon, do you have a respectable female to bear you company now circumstances here have changed?’
‘Mrs Bishop, sir.’
‘Hmm. A good woman, but I would wish you had a lady in residence.’
‘Thank you for your concern, but I feel quite…comfortable with the present circumstances, sir.’
That was hardly true, but advertising for some respectable companion was too fraught with dangers to be contemplated. ‘Should I need the benefit of female guidance, I am sure I might call upon Miss Perrin’s advice.’ The vicar’s sister, small, timid, with a perpetually red nose and the air of anxious piety, would hardly be much protection against a hardened rake, but the thought seemed to please the vicar.
‘Of course you may, Miss Haddon. Perhaps you would care to join the Ladies’ Hassock Sewing Circle?’
‘I would love to; however, my needlepoint is sadly clumsy.’ It was excellent, in fact, but Lina had sewn far too many hassocks for her father’s church in Martinsdene to want to start again now.
Trimble produced the vicar’s wide-brimmed hat, his gloves and cane and ushered him out of the door, leaving Lina to reflect that they had now received all the calls they were likely to.
‘Would the Ladies’ Hassock Sewing Circle not be amusing?’ The study door swung open to reveal Quinn lounging against the jamb.
‘You were listening at the keyhole,’ Lina said severely, disguising the fact that her hands had become suddenly shaky by jamming foliage into the back of the vase.
‘Of course. Think of the gossip you would pick up at the sewing circle.’
‘I never want to sew another hassock as long as I live,’ she said vehemently, then could have kicked herself as speculation came into the green eyes. ‘My aunt is very devout,’ she explained, crossing her fingers in the folds of her skirt before sweeping the plant trimmings into her trug and adjusting the vase.
‘There is no need to hurry off, Celina. I am unlikely to ravish you on the hard hall floor.’
‘Or anywhere, my lord, so long as I have a weapon in my hand,’ she retorted, adding the trimming knife to the trug.
‘Am I not forgiven?’ Quinn had not seen fit to have his hair cut, nor to adopt a more formal style of dress in anticipation of his callers. Lina wondered whether he was aware of how well the buckskin breeches and high boots, the white of his unstarched linen and the relaxed fit of the tailcoat over broad shoulders, suited him. Probably very aware, she concluded, just as he knew how spectacular he looked in his Oriental evening clothes. But it was not vanity, she suspected, but quite deliberate manipulation of those around him.
Today he wanted to make the point that he was a country gentleman at ease in his home and, while courteous to his visitors, not in any way concerned to impress them. Take me as you find me, he seemed to be saying. I am Dreycott now.
‘Are you asking my pardon, my lord? If you are sorry, then of course I forgive you.’
‘But I am not sorry,’ Quinn said softly. ‘Only that it was a less-than-satisfactory experience for both of us.’
‘If you are not repentant, then you cannot hope for forgiveness.’ Now I sound like Papa!
‘I am reproved, Celina.’ The green eyes mocked her, putting the lie to his words. ‘And how are your bruises today? And the part you sat upon so hard?’
‘My bruises are multi-coloured and I am somewhat stiff, my lord.’ Lina put her arm through the handle of the trug. ‘If you will excuse me, I have the vases to do in the dining room.’
Lina hoped she was not blushing. ‘I find it hard to speak to you in any other way after yesterday.’
‘So your tongue becomes formal, to act as a barrier,’ he said. ‘And how do you think of me, I wonder?’ Now she was blushing and he had seen it and that wicked smile was creasing the corners of his eyes and twitching at his mouth. ‘As Quinn now, perhaps?’
The lessons in flirtation came to her aid. Lina lowered her lashes, fluttered her free hand and said demurely, ‘I could not possible say…my lord.’
As she hoped, he thought she was laughing at him and not being serious. The grin became a smile and he shook his head at her. ‘The vicar thinks you should have a chaperon. He obviously considers this a house of sin.’
‘He enquired if I had one and I told him that Mrs Bishop was quite sufficient, as you will know as you were listening at the door. And the house is not sinful, my lord.’ With that she stepped into the dining room and shut the door behind her. Would he come in? No, she heard booted steps on the marble heading for the front door.
Lina stood and stared at the empty vase set ready for her flowers. She was enjoying her encounters with Quinn, she realised. She liked his frankness, his teasing, the lack of hypocrisy and cant, even as she was wary of him and frightened of her own reaction to his dangerous charm. The frisson of sensual awareness that quivered through her at the thought or sight of him was predictable, she told herself. She was so inexperienced with the opposite sex that any handsome man paying her that sort of attention would produce the same effect.
Quinn was, she could see clearly, the first adult male she had ever been so close to other than her father, and he happened to be an attractive, virile, intelligent, charming, unscrupulous male into the bargain. If temptation was made flesh it would probably be called Quinn Ashley.
