A Perfect Gentleman

by Barbara Metzger

  She could feel life flowing through him, through both of them. They were safe now, and she was not going to waste another minute in roundaboutation. She nodded and put his hand on her chest. “My heart, too. It almost stopped working when I thought you could shoot yourself with the pistol.”

  “Gads, I could have shot you!”

  They stood like that a minute, marveling that they had survived, together. Then Ellianne dabbed at her watery eyes with the ends of his neckcloth and looked into his sky-blue ones. “What else do you see in my eyes, Stony?”

  He saw love, pure and shining, and his heart almost burst all over again with the wonder of it. He lowered his lips to hers—and tasted blood from where Sir John had cut her lip. He instantly pulled back, lest he add to her injuries. “That bastard died too easy a death.”

  “I think he suffered a hard enough life, being as disturbed as he was.”

  “I think you are too forgiving. When I think of what he—”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, don’t think of that now. Later is soon enough. I know I will have nightmares without any reminders. But, Stony, why did you let him go on thinking that we were lovers? I was trying to convince him I was still a virtuous maiden.”

  She was right: There would be ample time to revisit the horror. For now he could gladly exchange the mental image of Thomasford licking his lips for a fonder memory. He thought of Ellianne atop the worktable in the butler’s pantry and grinned. “A maiden perhaps, but virtuous? You are every man’s dream companion: suitable lady on the outside, seductress on the inside.”

  She blushed, but was pleased with Stony’s assessment. “But Sir John could not have known that.”

  “He is—he was—a man. We live in hope of finding that perfect mate.”

  Ellianne was not ready to let herself hope for more than she had. She was alive and in Stony’s arms. That had to be enough for now. “But I am a virgin!”

  Not for long, if Stony’s grin had anything to say about it. “Thomasford would never have believed we were not lovers, not when I came after you with a weapon in my hand, so I saw no reason to waste the effort of arguing with him. Besides, I liked the sound of it. Lovers.”

  “Lovers.” Ellianne sighed, repeating the word. Making love and being in love were two separate activities, though. Not always, and not in fairy tales, but not the same. “Does that mean…?”

  She was not destined to hear Stony’s definition, for shouts and running footsteps could be heard on the steps.

  “Later, my sweet. Later.” He brushed off her bonnet and placed it on her head. There was no reason for anyone else to see Miss Kane’s hair coming undone. Lud, it was enough to make lunatics of them all. Even now, amid the mayhem and misery, he wanted to take down those last pins, unplait the last braids, and spread it out, a living fire to warm the chill in his blood from this place of death. He could not, not now.

  “In here,” he called. “We are in here.”

  *

  Stony’s explanation, demonstration, supplication of “lovers” had to wait much longer than he wished.

  Bow Street arrived in force, led by Mr. Lattimer, who was full of regrets. Of course he was. He hadn’t listened to Wellstone’s suspicions, hadn’t been the one to rescue Miss Kane. Not only was he not going to collect any part of the huge reward, but he might be collecting his last paycheck, to judge from his superior’s scowl.

  The magistrate came, and the coroner’s inquest panel, mortified that one of their own was suspected of such heinous acts. They looked at Stony as if he were the murderer, trying to foist his dastardly deeds onto the most respected member of their fraternity. Even Lattimer had to protest that.

  Official recorders for the courts came to hear Ellianne repeat her story yet again. Reporters from the newspapers came, too, and artists who bribed the guards outside for a glimpse of the beauty, the Barber, and his bête noire. Napoleon’s defeat would have been a bigger story, but not tonight.

  Stony tried to shield Ellianne as much as possible, insisting they go elsewhere to give their depositions, calling for pots of hot tea, and brandy to add to it. He made them send a messenger to Sloane Street so no one would worry, another to Gwen canceling their dinner, and one to a groom to stable his poor horse. He demanded Lattimer send for a physician to look at Miss Kane’s neck and the prostrate maid, while Runners went to Sir John’s rooms in search of the evidence Ellianne told them would be there.

  They found the hair, all neatly collected in hatboxes, one atop the other. They found knives and razors and shaving soap, and the deed to a yacht in the harbor. They found diaries in Sir John’s handwriting, and clothing that could only belong to ladies of the night. Even his mother, if the fiend was indeed spawned by a creature of this world, would have to believe in Thomasford’s guilt.

  They were free to go.

  By the time Stony walked Ellianne to her door, she was staggering on her feet. He saw her into her aunt’s care, but kissed her forehead before he left and promised, “Tomorrow.”

  *

  Tomorrow was impossible. Miss Kane was a heroine. So many flowers were delivered that her house looked like a country garden, with narrow pathways between banks of bouquets. No one could have walked the aisles anyway, they were so filled with callers eager to congratulate her on surviving, commiserate with her at the ordeal, and capture a bit of her glory for themselves. They were friends of the amazing Miss Kane, guests told themselves, although they had never shared two words before. The ladies delightedly clutched their vinaigrettes at sight of the sticking plaster her high collar could not conceal, and the gentlemen clutched her hand. Everyone wanted to speak with her, touch her, have her at their affairs, like a prized trophy.

  Timms had to find a replacement for the overflowing silver salver that held calling cards and invitations. He chose a much larger basket. The dog had slept in it only once, far preferring Lady Augusta’s bed.

  So many invitations arrived, Ellianne could not think of leaving London, not when one of them came from the prince regent himself. Refusal would have been near to treason, Gwen insisted. Prinny wanted to throw a fete at Carlton House in her honor. After all, London was safe for all women now, because of her.

  She was brave. She was a celebrity. She was overwhelmed.

  And Stony was…rich.

  Ellianne wanted no part of the bountiful reward money. After all, she was paying a big portion of it. Besides, she had not suspected Sir John, had not overpowered him, or rendered him helpless. In fact, she insisted, without Viscount Wellstone she would have died at the murderer’s hand instead of being any kind of heroic Amazon warrior. His lordship deserved every pound of the generous bounty, and more.

  He got more, a lot more. The coroner added to the already huge reward, in hope of deflecting criticism of his office, and the home secretary added a heavy purse from a grateful government. A newspaper offered a handsome sum, just for an interview, and a broadside printer paid for a portrait. Relieved women sent him coins, sometimes anonymously, sometimes with a perfumed note. Those last he returned, but the rest he kept and counted and put to good use.

  His bills would all be paid as soon as his solicitors could tally them. Repairs to Wellstone Park would be under way, new farming equipment ordered, laborers hired. Gwen’s annuity would be restored so that if, by the grace of God, she chose to rewed, she had something to bring to her new husband. Careful investments could be made so some of the money would earn him more. His home for girls would get a new roof.

  He was not wealthy, not by Ellianne’s standards, but he was well-off. He was instantly retired, never again to escort a female for money, unless he was taking a mare to sell at Tattersall’s. He could have his fields and his sheep and his stud farm. The shipbuilding enterprise could come later, if he wished. If not, he could still live nicely at Wellstone Park, and keep the London town house open for Gwen. Or he could stay in the city, if that was what his wife wanted. He shut the accounts books and put on his hat an
d gloves.

  He could afford a wife. He could not afford to miss another chance at having the right wife.

  He needed Ellianne, and not just because he could make neither heads nor tails out of the ledgers and wanted her advice on the investments. He knew that without her he was poorer than any beggar in the street, no matter what he had in the bank. He just had to convince her that she was the prize, not her fortune. He took the top ledger with him, to prove he was a man of means. He meant to succeed this time.

  Ten other fellows were ahead of him, with posies and bonbons and bad poetry. None had brought their account books, though. Ellianne dismissed them with a wave and a smile, telling Timms that she was no longer receiving guests. The old butler thanked her and the good Lord, sat down, and removed his shoes. Ellianne led Stony to her book room.

  Just looking at him in his dark blue jacket and doeskin breeches and high-topped boots made her forget all those other men. They left her yawning; he almost took her breath away. She knew what she wanted to say but, suddenly shy, waited for him to speak. She knew what she wanted to hear.

  She did not want to hear a financial report. She frowned.

  She did not want to hear a summary of investments. She scowled.

  Most of all, she did not want to hear a bloodcurdling screech from her aunt in the front parlor. She jumped to her feet and raced past Stony and his foolish lists. He dropped the ledger and followed her.

  Aunt Lally was screaming, and barefoot Timms was on his knees, praying. No, he was shaking the dog, who, on his side, was gasping for air.

  “I gave him a piece of a turnip!” Aunt Lally wailed. “It was cooked soft enough, I swear. But he started choking and gagging and wheezing; then he fell over, just like my husband did when he swallowed that cherry pit. By Saint Jerome’s jewels, I have killed someone else!”

  The dog was barely breathing. “Do something!” Ellianne cried.

  “You want me to save the miserable creature’s life? Why?” But Stony was already on the floor, with his hands—reluctantly—prying open the dog’s mouth and putting one hand—regrettably ungloved—down Atlas’s throat. He could not feel anything but a few teeth in the back of the jaw. He looked over at Aunt Lally and the knitting she’d dropped, and thought of sticking one of the long needles down his throat. Or hers, if she did not stop caterwauling enough for him to think. That would be a last resort.

  Ellianne was looking at him beseechingly. Damn. He had not yet proposed, and he was already failing her.

  Stony hauled the dog off the floor and dangled him upside down, shaking him hard enough to rattle those last few teeth. Nothing happened. Then he bounced him against the padded armrest of the sofa. Again nothing happened. Recalling the bout with Blanchard, Stony punched the dog in what he took to be the animal’s midsection. Ellianne gasped; Aunt Lally cursed; Timms prayed, but the same thing happened as occurred with Blanchard. Whatever air remained in the dog was expelled in one whoosh, along with the turnip. Stony laid the beast down, then bent to put his ear to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. He’d heard of the kiss of life, of breathing air into the mouth of a drowning victim. Good grief, Ellianne did not expect that of him, did she?

  Yes, it seemed, from her pleading look. He would have to rethink this proposal business later. A woman who asked a man to move mountains was one thing, but this…“Yes! He is breathing! Yes! No, damn you, do not lick my face!”

  Then Aunt Lally threw herself into Stony’s arms, almost bowling him over. “You saved my niece, now the dog! And here I thought you had no bottom! By all the saints, Wellstone, you’ve got stones!” She kissed him on both cheeks, which was almost worse than the dog’s show of gratitude.

  Timms was weeping tears of joy, not out of any fondness for the dog. Stony knew, but because his prayers had been answered: He didn’t have to kiss the cur. Stony shoved Ellianne’s aunt in the butler’s direction. Let them comfort and congratulate each other. He had waited long enough.

  He held his empty arms open. Ellianne walked into them.

  Before he could speak, she stopped him with a kiss, then said, “No, I have waited too long to say this, and I might not find the courage again. But you truly are my hero, Stony, the finest man I know. I do not care if you don’t love me. I want to be yours anyway. If you do not wish to be married, I can try to accept that too, for however long I can share your life, your bed, your thoughts. I do not think I could bear it if you wed someone else, but until then we can have whatever kind of life you wish. You can be the richest consort in the kingdom, for I would give every shilling I own to be in your arms like this forever, or you can be the poorest, living on love alone, for I would give the money to charity if you wanted.”

  Stony kissed her eyelids, both of them. “Whoa, sweetings. Who said I did not love you?”

  “You do?”

  “No, he does not!” came a commanding voice from the hallway. A scarlet-uniformed officer had come to call but, finding no one at the door, he had limped toward the voices. Now he stood leaning on his cane, but evidently ready to use it on Stony’s head. “Unhand my fiancée, you cad!”

  Stony looked at him. “Brisbane?”

  Ellianne looked at him. “Fiancée?”

  He looked at Ellianne. “Isabelle?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Stony’s friend Daniel, Captain Brisbane, had met Isabelle on her way to Town, it seemed, months ago.

  He had been returning to London after accompanying the dowager countess Hargeave to her daughter’s lying-in. Stony recalled the trip, for he had made the arrangements himself. Lady Hargeave did not like traveling without a male escort, even if she had to pay for it, since innkeepers gave better service, rooms, horses, and meals to a female under a gentleman’s protection. And she liked to flirt.

  Brisbane rode beside the carriage for the most part, offending the lady, but seeing her handed safely into the care of her son-in-law, who rewarded him generously, since the man was elated at the birth of his first son.

  With coins in his pocket, the captain was in no hurry to return to London. He stopped off at a pleasant inn, but a commotion disturbed his rest. A carriage had arrived, a private hired coach, but the groom, the lady’s maid, and an older chaperon were ill, and the driver not much better. At first the innkeeper tried to turn them away for fear of contagion, until a beautiful young lady swore they had eaten bad fish the previous night, of which she had not partaken. Being a gentleman, of course, Brisbane came to the young woman’s assistance. He made sure she had rooms, and her servants were cared for. He rode for the apothecary himself, since the village had neither surgeon nor physician.

  “She never told me any of this, merely that the journey was delayed.” Ellianne was dismayed. She had sent her sister off with ample protection against everything except bad fish…and handsome, injured young officers. “What else did you do for my sister, sir?” she demanded.

  Stony said, “Hush, my dear. There is more to the story.”

  Brisbane nodded. “The apothecary said the patients needed five days’ rest, at the least. The inn was not the finest, catering more to the local drovers than the carriage trade. I could not leave a young miss there on her own, could I?”

  “Of course not,” Stony agreed, when Ellianne would have suggested any number of alternatives.

  Sensing her disapproval, Brisbane turned to her. “I swear I did not know she was an heiress, ma’am. She was dressed simply, like a sweet country lass, not in the height of fashion. She said she was coming to London because her old auntie wanted her to contract a decent marriage. I thought that meant into a bit of money, never thinking her aunt was related to a marquess, or that Lady Augusta intended her to wed a title. Miss Isabelle said she did not care about making an advantageous match; she just wanted to see the sights.”

  “I told her there was no hurry in picking a husband, simply to enjoy herself.”

  Brisbane nodded. “I told her where to go first, which buildings and exhibits and views she should not
miss. She took notes and made lists.”

  Stony glanced at Ellianne. “A family trait?”

  “We are all organized, efficient people. I cannot believe Isabelle did not hire another coach, after making provision for the servants at the inn, of course. It would have been far less dangerous for her to complete the journey on her own than stay at a second rate inn with no chaperon whatsoever.”

  Brisbane colored. Miss Kane was correct, of course. He could have begged the vicar’s wife or the innkeeper’s daughter to accompany Miss Isabelle while he rode alongside the coach himself. But he had not wanted her to go, and she was reluctant to leave. So they talked and they walked, as best he could with his limp, and shared meals in the private parlor. Otherwise, he claimed, she would have to eat in her small bedroom, or alone.

  “Heaven forfend,” Ellianne muttered, knowing what was coming.

  “She was so sweet and kind, never once belittling my awkward gait, as many of the flighty London girls do, thinking that a lame man is beneath their notice. Miss Isabelle thought I was a hero, injured in my country’s defense. She did not believe my life was ended with my army career, but was just beginning. I could be anything I wanted, she said.”

  “And you wanted to be…?”

  “Her husband. Belle is perfect, beautiful yet modest, intelligent but not opinionated. How could I not adore her, not want to care for her the rest of my days, have her beside me, bear my children?”

  Stony took Ellianne’s hand. “How indeed?”