Pursued by the Rake

by Lancaster, Mary

  Her heart, already drumming, seemed to reel with a heady mixture of relief and appreciation. As she exploded onto the lawn and threw herself into the chair beside him, he opened his eyes and looked round.

  “Someone is here,” she blurted. “He saw me.”

  “Who did?” he asked lazily, although his eyes were suddenly alert.

  “That man we saw at the inn, whom you recognized from the Blue Boar. He was here, just sitting there in front of the church.”

  Joe rose at once, closing the book. “Was he, by God?”

  He’d already taken one stride before Hazel reached out and seized his arm. “He’s gone. I watched him ride away toward the village, but the thing is, Joe, I thought he was something to do with Connaught Place, but he isn’t looking for me at all. I don’t know whether he’s mad or sinister in some way I don’t understand, but he said he was looking for a gentleman. And then, as if I would know exactly whom he meant, he gave me a message for this gentleman.”

  Joe frowned down at her. “What message?”

  She shrugged impatiently. “Something bizarre about owls approaching your cooking pot. Unless I misheard—”

  She broke off, for Joe’s eyes suddenly widened in astonishment. Determination was drowned in something much wilder. Alarm, perhaps, but also sheer excitement that was close to joy. Without warning, he tore himself free of her grasp and dashed straight through the roses to the fence, which he simply vaulted over. She could see only his head speeding in the direction of the village road.

  *

  Selim. Joe knew it had to be Selim, his old friend, the adventurous Ottoman prince. No one else would have sent him such a message, let alone expected him to understand both its humor and its threat.

  Approaching the path that led directly to the village, he slowed and listened cautiously. But he could hear no breath, human or equine, above the leaves whispering in the breeze and the birds chirping in the sunshine. He walked some way down the path, every sense on full alert for any sound, any threat. He could see fresh tracks in the dried mud of the path—horse’s hooves. He could tell the animal had been galloping at full tilt. Joe wasn’t meant to catch him yet.

  There were other tracks, too, coming toward the church. A man’s footprints and a walking horse’s. Selim had come as quietly as he could, as though he already knew Joe was here, and left at full speed. Was he staying in the village? Did he expect Joe to follow?

  Perversely, Joe turned back and returned to the garden where Hazel awaited him, her fresh morning beauty marred by anxiety for him. Her concern touched him, though he was sorry to have caused it.

  “You’re right. He has quite gone,” he said mildly, throwing himself back into his chair beside her. He picked up his cup, but the coffee was cold.

  “I’ll bring out the pot,” she said, and he admired her figure as she walked into the dining room.

  He had liked flirting with her last night. He hadn’t meant to, especially not after her revelation about Barden, to say nothing of his own about the princess, but her unexpected touch at the corner of his eye had inspired as well as inflamed him.

  She hadn’t really flirted back, of course. But neither had she fled, or annihilated him, verbally or physically. She had been baffled, confused, but surely not indifferent. The pulse in her wrist had galloped under his lips, and there had been an instant when she would have welcomed his kiss. And what a kiss it would have been… Well, it would be all the sweeter for the anticipation of waiting.

  He shifted in his chair, trying to quell his arousal by forcing himself to think instead of Selim and the message. And of course, it had not been Selim himself. Hazel had said it was the man they had seen on the journey, and that had most definitely not been the prince. But without doubt, the man was his messenger.

  Hazel came back with the coffee pot and fresh cups. He liked watching her delicate wrists as she poured and finally set the pot in front of them.

  “Was he English?” he asked as she sat down beside him.

  “Definitely. London, I would say. Educated to a point and polite enough, but not a gentleman, and with no pretensions to be so.”

  “Interesting,” Joe murmured.

  “Why? What in the world did he mean?”

  “A warning. A threat, if you like. No, don’t look like that. The threat is only to me, and he won’t murder me in cold blood.”

  “How can you be sure? Who is this messenger?”

  “I don’t know his name, but I know who he represents.”

  Although he tried to speak reassuringly, she continued to gaze at him expectantly. Her bright curiosity was one of the many unexpected things about her that he found so attractive, but for once, he wished she would simply accept that there was no danger and move on to something else. But she didn’t.

  He was more than capable of simply shifting the conversation, and he almost did. For in his diplomatic travels, he had formed many complicated relationships all over the world—in China, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, and Germany. Several of them had involved cat-and-mouse games, friendships, and minor negotiating victories disguised as losses. But his relationship with Selim was the most complex of all. He was reluctant to dwell on it, for that always aroused feelings of guilt and regret, pleasure and grief. Moreover, how could he explain it to Hazel when he didn’t really understand it himself?

  He sighed. “Selim. The adventurous Ottoman prince who was once my friend.”

  “Whose sister you did not marry.”

  “I’m glad you pay attention to my rambling stories.”

  “You never ramble, unless you’re deliberately trying to distract.”

  He couldn’t help smiling at that. She was nothing if not observant.

  “Is Selim now your enemy?” she hazarded. “What on earth is he doing in England?”

  “He is in exile, so I suppose England is as good as anywhere else. As to whether or not he is my enemy… I expect he blames me for his exile.”

  “Rightly?” she asked.

  “Up to a point,” he admitted. “I never pretended to be anything other than the representative of His Majesty’s interests in the Ottoman Empire. And those interests lay in keeping Selim’s cousin, Mahmud the Reformer, in power. If anything happened to him, Selim was one of our preferred choices to succeed him as Sultan, but Mahmud is pretty secure on his throne. It was not the time or the place to attempt a coup. His brother-in-law was leading him into just that, and it was, inevitably, disastrous.”

  “This brother-in-law being the man who replaced you in his sister’s affections?”

  “Something like that. But yes, her husband. The coup never got off the ground, the British confirmed their support for the sultan, and Selim was lucky not to be executed.”

  “He blames you for the British stance against him?” she asked indignantly.

  He couldn’t help smiling at her support, but he replied honestly, “I rather think he blames me for betraying him.”

  For an instant, his own pain seemed to be reflected in her melting, dark eyes. “He must have known your first duty was always to your own government, your own king.”

  “Of course. And yet, we still expect some friendships to transcend such general loyalties.”

  Her eyes searched his for a moment longer, then she said flatly, “We should leave here.”

  “We should. For any number of reasons. Are the young people up? I think we need a congress.”

  She set down her empty coffee cup. “I’ll go and see.” She rose and turned toward the French window, then glanced back frowning. “Joe?”

  It was the second time she had so addressed him—third if one counted the market yesterday when he was pretending to be her servant. He rather liked it, accepting, casually intimate.

  “Hazel,” he returned.

  “Please explain the owl and the cooking pot?”

  He laughed. “It’s a traditional Turkish curse. May owls nest in your cooking pot. Owls are ominous in Ottoman superstition, associated with b
ad luck and terrible events. The curse vastly entertained me when Selim flung it at me, especially because he was eating what I had just cooked for him at the time. That’s why I know the message comes from him.”

  Chapter Nine

  They held their “congress” around the breakfast table. When everyone had full plates, Dennis looked directly at Joe and accused, “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  “Probably,” Joe said mildly. “But it hasn’t been decided yet. That’s what we need to discuss. Personally, I have a choice of commitments. I could stay here…”

  The children cheered loudly at this suggestion, causing Bart to grin.

  “Hold on, there,” Bart protested. “Sir Joe hasn’t told us his other commitments, which are almost certainly more important to him than hanging around here! But seriously, sir, if you would like to, neither my sister nor Mr. Armitage would mind in the slightest. They’d probably be grateful.”

  “Thank you,” Joe said politely. “It would not be impossible for me to stay if I were any use to anyone here. My other commitments are chasing after a friend who could be anywhere and may well enjoy leading me on a wild goose chase. Or, I could go home to my country estate, where I’ve a feeling my mother wants me for some social event I would rather avoid. Miss Hazel has already intimated she will stay with you until your sister returns. Bart, you are the other one with…business that might take you elsewhere.”

  “Sussex,” Bart said gloomily. “But I have no means of getting there. I think I have to resign myself to waiting for Agatha to go home. If my uncle will take me back in.”

  “It is possible that I could lend you the money to get to Sussex or to your uncle’s,” Joe said, quickly raising his hand as Bart jumped up in excitement. “Depending,” he added hastily, “on what we decide.” Bart sat down again. “Because the younger people haven’t yet given us their preference. I imagine you, too, have the choice of waiting here with or without Bart if Miss Hazel is with you, or returning to your aunt and uncle.”

  “Stay here,” Edward said promptly, a decision echoed unanimously by all his siblings.

  Joe smiled faintly. “Then perhaps my other possible option is not worth even mentioning.”

  Hazel almost laughed, because she saw that he knew exactly what he wanted everyone to do and was skillfully manipulating them all into choosing it.

  “It would mean you don’t stay here,” he said apologetically to the children, “so you may not like it. On the other hand, I expect it will become harder to hide here by Sunday when everyone and his wife troops to church. And it’s possible the magistrate will finally find someone who recognized Bertie or even Bart. And this last option would keep you with Bart, as well as with Miss Hazel and me.”

  “But it wouldn’t get me to Sussex,” Bart pointed out.

  “Actually, it would,” Joe said, pronging a large piece of sausage on his plate. “If I please my mother and go home for this wretched party, you could all come with me. My mother likes guests,” he added with a quick glance at Hazel.

  She was staring at him. He must have run mad or forgotten the reason they were here in the first place. “She wouldn’t like me,” she said bluntly. “And if she is holding a party, I doubt she wants uninvited guests!” Especially not when four of them were children and one socially ruined in the eyes of the polite world.

  “There, you wrong her,” Joe said. “She is far too good-natured not to welcome you. All of you. What is more,” he added, glancing at Bart, “it is more than possible she is acquainted with whomever it is your Agatha is visiting.”

  He needed to say no more. “I’m with you,” Bart said in awe. “Let’s go to Sir Joe’s!”

  The children burst into excited questions and speculations, while Hazel felt her protective bubble burst. Her ears seemed to sing as reality once more rushed at her. She was ruined, and she had nowhere to go.

  What had she been thinking of, relying on Sir Joseph and Amelia Sprigg’s young siblings to hide from the world? She had never felt so alone in her life. She wanted her father. She wanted the mother she barely remembered. Even her irascible grandmother would have been familiar…

  “You can’t let them travel alone,” Joe murmured beside her.

  “They have Bart. They don’t need me.”

  “Oh, I think they do. Besides, you can’t stay here alone.”

  “I shall probably go on to Scotland, to my grandmother.”

  Joe glanced up at Bart and the children, who were still all talking at once while they carried the used crockery and cutlery back to the kitchen. “I don’t think you can have grasped the main point,” he said, bringing his gaze back to her, “which is that my mother can give you the protection you need.”

  “Joe, even if she wanted to, I cannot expect her to lie and say I’ve been with her for the last four days!”

  “She won’t need to. The mere fact that she receives you will fight the rumors.”

  “My presence would merely spoil her party,” Hazel said tiredly. “What sort of event is it? Will her guests stay several days?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know the details, because when she told me before she left London, I confess I wasn’t listening but wondering how I could avoid it.” He hesitated, then said reluctantly, “There will be a ball in honor of my youngest sister’s seventeenth birthday.”

  Hazel smiled. “Then she will definitely not want me there. You must see that.”

  “Actually, I don’t. And you know, it’s perfectly possible that the powerful families of the other young ladies concerned have already squashed these rumors. I really think you are worrying about nothing.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not. I know you mean to be kind, but it would be a terrible thing to do to your mother and sister. And to me. I have a dread of inflicting myself where I am not wanted, and I cannot do it.”

  He covered her hand on the table, threading his fingers through hers. “Would you believe I have a solution for that, too?”

  In spite of everything, she smiled involuntarily. “Yes, but I don’t believe it would satisfy me. Or your mother.”

  “We could use Hazel as your surname, just until we spy out the lie of the land. You could be the children’s governess.”

  “I will not lie to your mother!” she exclaimed.

  “I doubt we’ll need to. It’s merely a shield we can use if we need to.”

  She shook her head. His hand was warm and far too comforting on hers. But when his thumb moved against her palm, in a caress she doubted he was aware of, her skin tingled, and she hastily drew free, standing up to collect the rest of the plates.

  “No,” she said firmly. “It’s still not fair to anyone.”

  *

  It was not, of course, the end of the matter. The children took it for granted that she was going with them, and she could almost see herself slipping into the journey by the force of their assumptions. And from time to time, Joe added arguments to his case.

  “My mother will be glad of someone to keep an eye on the younger ones.”

  And, “They would miss you.”

  Even, “A journey with an overnight stop, staying in a strange house is a lot for Irene to manage on her own with the younger children to consider.”

  The last was uttered in the garden, where she had gone to think in solitude. But it hadn’t been long before he had fallen into step beside her among the roses and uttered his next persuasive argument.

  “That one is not fair,” she protested. “It is you who insisted they all go with you.”

  “It was one of many choices,” he pointed out.

  “You are a shameless, manipulative—”

  “It really will be best of us all.”

  “For Bart, maybe,” she allowed. “But we don’t even know if this Agatha is a good thing for him or not.”

  “I would like you with me to find out,” he said. “I value your judgment in such matters.”

  She glared at him. “But not in the matter of my bein
g at your mother’s party?”

  “No, for I have more experience of society—and of my mother—than you do.”

  She gave a reluctant laugh. “You have an answer for everything. But truly, you cannot persuade me. If you would but lend me the cost of a stagecoach ticket to Edinburgh…”

  “Listen,” he interrupted suddenly.

  She paused, frowning, and heard what he had. The soft thud of horses’ hooves on dried mud, the bump of wheels over ruts, the swish of foliage against the side of an approaching vehicle, all coming from the direction of the village road.

  As one, Hazel and Joe jerked around to face the French door, through which the children had started bringing things for tea. As yesterday, the blanket was spread on the lawn. A large plate of freshly baked scones had been placed in the center, and under Irene’s orders, the children were spreading tea plates around the edges for place settings. Louise slapped Bart’s hand as he tried to swipe an early scone, and he let out a burst of laughter.

  “Quick!” Hazel hissed, running toward them. “Get back into the house! Someone is coming!”

  After a moment’s gawping and the sound of the carriage approaching the front of the house, they sprang into action. The plates were hastily gathered up. Bart seized the scones, and Hazel grabbed the blanket, shooing everyone into the house before her.

  By then, she could hear a man’s voice and a woman replying, and whisked herself inside. She seized the French door, waiting impatiently for Joe—and a man hurried around from the side of the house, stopping dead at the sight of Joe.

  It was Bart’s guard, the one who had fallen so often into the market stall at Joe’s clumsy hands.

  Oh, no, we are undone.

  But there was no time for histrionics. She closed the door on Joe and flapped her hands at the baffled Bart. From outside, someone shouted, “Sir!”