Pursued by the Rake

by Lancaster, Mary

  “That is a good point,” Emma agreed. “Ladies have to have the approval of fathers or brothers or husbands for their friends. While gentlemen can associate with the lowest company.”

  “Such as that to be found at the Blue Boar, perhaps,” Hazel murmured.

  “And then,” Emma said indignantly, “they convince themselves it’s quite acceptable to encourage such creatures because they wouldn’t actually introduce them to their wives and mothers and sisters!”

  Joe laughed. “I feel as if I’ve been tied up in a parcel and kicked into the sea. Exactly who is it you imagine I associate with?”

  “Prize fighters and opera dancers,” Emma said promptly. “Whom I must own, I wouldn’t mind meeting from a safe distance, at least. Wouldn’t you, Hazel?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met a fighter, to my knowledge. Or an opera dancer. Although there is an opera singer who used to give the princess lessons. He is most agreeable.”

  “Is he?” Joe said dryly, and Hazel remembered a little too late that the opera singer in question was rumored to give Her Highness lessons in rather more than singing.

  Flushing, she lapsed into silence, although as the journey proceeded, she was frequently conscious of Joe’s gaze on her face. Not for the first time, she wished she had kept her mouth shut. And yet, when she risked a glance at him, his eyes danced.

  Great Finglebury didn’t really live up to its imposing name. It was a small market town with some picturesque old buildings and a pretty square. As they entered the town, Bart suddenly sneezed and excused himself, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. Instead, his fingers emerged, dangling a black mask.

  “Oops.” With a sheepish smile, he shoved it back into the pocket and seized his handkerchief from the other.

  Emma laughed. “Why on earth do you have a mask in your pocket?”

  For highway robbery, of course!

  “I must have stuffed it in there at the last moment when Sir Joe told us about your ball,” Bart said in a rush. “I wasn’t sure if it was a masquerade.”

  “Oh, I wish it was, now you mention it,” Emma said eagerly. “Is it too late to have a masked ball instead, Joe?”

  “Much too late,” Joe said firmly. “Mama would have kittens, and Standish would expire at the impropriety, which would earn us all a lecture from Roberta that would bore me to tears.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Emma said reluctantly. She shrugged, “Oh, well!”

  The carriage came to a halt in the yard of an inn whose sign proclaimed The Sayle and Boat.

  “Are you the Sayle in question?” Bart asked Joe, clearly both impressed and amused.

  “The family is,” Joe admitted, handing Hazel down “There have been Sayles in this part of Sussex since the Conquest.”

  Of course there had. Everything Hazel learned seemed to place him farther and farther away from her.

  “If you wish, we can have luncheon here,” Joe suggested. “If Bart escorts you around the shops and market stalls, I shall endeavor to find my friend. I may even bring him to luncheon. How long will you need?”

  “An hour,” Emma said optimistically.

  “Then I shall meet you back here in one hour,” Joe said. “One, Emma!”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling beatifically.

  Joe’s lips quirked. He tipped his hat to Hazel and strolled across to the inn door. Emma happily guided them back to the square in search of her ribbons.

  Hazel enjoyed feminine fripperies as much as most women, but after an hour of ribbons, interspersed with a short detour around a market stall full of Spanish combs, she was more than ready for luncheon. Bart bore it all with remarkable fortitude. Hazel thought he was desperate to be able to buy a gift for Agatha. But since that was likely to simply annoy her parents, perhaps it was as well he had no money.

  “I can’t make up my mind,” Emma said at last. “The sunshine yellow velvet from the stall or the red-watered silk from the draper’s shop? What do you think, Hazel?”

  “You could just buy both and decide at the time,” Hazel hinted. Emma continued to look at her expectantly. She sighed. “But if you wish it to contrast with the blonde of your hair, you should probably choose the red.”

  Emma beamed. “Then I shall!”

  Finally, they walked back into the yard of the Sayle and Boat, and Emma led them inside.

  “Why, Miss Emma!” exclaimed the innkeeper’s wife, bustling to meet them while she dried her hands on her apron. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  “And you, Mrs. Pike. Is my brother here? We were to meet him for luncheon, and I’m hoping it’s your beef pie!”

  “Bless your heart, Miss! Step into the parlor, and I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” She threw open a door on her left, curtseying cheerfully. “Sir Joseph was here earlier, looking for the Turkish gentleman—”

  “Turkish?” Hazel repeated, startled. “You never told us he was Turkish.”

  Emma laughed. “Why, what difference does that make?”

  “None, of course,” Hazel said at once. Though if it was Selim, it made a great deal of difference. She thought again of the soft, threatening voice at the inn during their journey, and Joe’s story about how their friendship had ended.

  Thinking furiously, she realized it made perfect sense for it to be Selim. He had sent his messenger to follow him from London, while Selim based himself near Joe’s home, where his family was, and searched outward from there, waiting for him to come home. Which spoke of a rather frightening level of patience and determination.

  Then, the prince must have received word from his messenger that Joe had left Essex and come to look for him on the road. Which was when he had found them at the Tonbridge inn.

  Had Joe suspected this all along? Was that the true reason he was looking for this “friend” today?”

  “He’ll be back shortly,” Mrs. Pike assured them. “He told me you would be joining him for luncheon, but he expected you to be late.”

  “Which is Joe’s excuse for being late himself,” Emma said wryly. “Well, we shall be quite comfortable here.”

  “Let me bring you some lemonade I’ve just made up. And perhaps a glass of wine or ale for the young gentleman?”

  Bart asked for small beer, and they made themselves at home in the comfortable parlor to wait for Joe.

  However, the shadow of Selim hung heavily over Hazel. She had barely given the Ottoman any thought in the last couple of days, but if he was here, he surely meant Joe ill.

  After Mrs. Pike had served them, Hazel made up her mind and followed her from the room.

  “Mrs. Pike?”

  The woman turned. “Oh, sorry, Miss, did I forget something?”

  “No, no, I just wanted to ask you, did Sir Joseph find his Ottoman friend here? Is he here?”

  “Well, he’s been staying here for the last two or three weeks, as I told Sir Joseph. But he went out this morning. Sometimes he vanishes for two days at a time, but then he is foreign. Anyway, he hasn’t come back today. Sir Joseph went to look for him.”

  “Ah. Then they haven’t met yet?”

  “Not unless they found each other in the street, Miss, which is more than likely on market day!”

  “Thank you,” Hazel murmured. She hesitated, then crossed the floor to the front door of the inn. From the doorstep, she looked around the yard, then shaded her eyes with her hand and peered over the wall for a sight of anyone who resembled Joe.

  There was a carriage in the yard, halted in the shade of a willow tree while two horses munched contentedly from nose bags. Inside, the inn was busy and noisy, no doubt because it was market day. A couple of farm laborers were playing pitch penny against the house wall, each with a mug of ale. But there was no sign of anyone new approaching the inn.

  She was being silly, of course. She just could not squash the strange sense of unease eating at her. But standing at the door watching for him would not bring him back any more quickly. It would merely draw attenti
on to herself.

  Decisively, she turned back to the house—and found Lord Barden in the doorway.

  “You!” she uttered with loathing.

  “Funnily enough, I was about to say the same to you,” he sneered. “You are, indeed, a difficult girl to pin down. I believe I warned you there would be consequences to your failure to meet my commands.”

  “I do not acknowledge your right to give me commands,” she retorted.

  Behind him, someone was trying to leave the inn. Before Hazel could move, Barden seized her arm and all but dragged her out of the way to let the man leave.

  “Unhand me,” she said between her teeth.

  His smile broadened. “I do not acknowledge your right to give me commands.”

  She lifted her foot, and he hastily side-stepped to avoid her stamping on him as she had in Connaught Place. But he did not release her arm.

  She could have screamed. Given her connection to the family whose name was borne by the inn, she was sure of support. Unfortunately, she was also sure of far too much attention, and she did not wish to bring more embarrassment to the Sayles.

  “Say what you have to and be gone,” she said coldly. “Though I do not see what more you can say.”

  “Oh, I’ve finished with words, Miss Curwen. They have served their purpose, and you all see what happens when I am crossed. You were little more than a glorified servant to a whore. You had no right to refuse me.”

  The heat of sheer anger suffused her face. “Even an unglorified servant has the right to refuse your advances! Have you no honor that you speak so of the lady whose food and wine you were so happily swilling when we last met?”

  His fingers dug painfully into her arm. “My dear, it is your honor we are discussing. Indeed, the lack of it. Face facts. You have nowhere to go. No one will house you or even acknowledge you now, not even your grandmother. And your father, I suspect, will be glad to be rid of you any way he can. You are hardly a benefit to his career. And they say he will be made an admiral soon.”

  “What do you want, my lord?” she asked in a short, hard voice.

  He smiled, that nasty look of gloating on his face once more. “You. You cannot go back to Brightoaks, for I have already told everyone who you are. Lady Sayle will have no choice but to send you away. I am prepared to save you from such humiliation. Come with me now, and you need never go back. We can send for your luggage.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You want me? I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t mistake it for an honorable proposal,” he mocked. “And I cannot pretend I won’t tire of the prize now it is won, but I will—probably—look after you. Or at least pass you on to a friend.”

  Her hand shot out, almost of its own volition, but before it got anywhere near him, her arm was hauled back by another man she had never seen in her life. A manservant, by his appearance.

  Before she could even blink, she was dragged between them the few feet to the waiting carriage. The nosebags had vanished from the horses, and a coachman held the reins, ready to go.

  Now she was desperate enough to scream. She even opened her mouth, but only a muffled grunt emerged as she was flung bodily into the carriage. Both men threw themselves in after her, and the coach began to move forward.

  She reached for another scream, at the same time casting herself toward the still-open door. But suddenly, a large figure filled the space, leaping into the carriage and slamming the door closed behind him before he fell onto the bench beside Barden.

  The valet, if such he was, yanked Hazel back into her seat.

  “Good afternoon,” the newcomer said, removing his smart beaver hat and leaning both hands on his ornate walking cane.

  “Who the devil are you?” Barden sputtered.

  “My name,” the newcomer said amiably, looking at Hazel rather than at either of the other men, “is Selim.”

  *

  Joe had spent a rather frustrating hour chasing Selim around the town. His first sight of him had been clear—a tall, dark gentleman with black hair and skin bronzed by a foreign sun, dressed in a smart blue coat and buff pantaloons, strolling through the market with an elegant, ebony walking cane.

  Joe had never seen him in western dress before, but it didn’t seem to matter what he wore. He was still an arresting figure, poised, self-confident, curious as he poked among the market stalls and occasionally glanced at people with the open curiosity Joe remembered so well.

  It made Joe’s heart ache a little, the sight of his old friend who had come to seek revenge for betrayal. Selim was a force of nature. He would never give up, had nothing else to live for now. Or thought he didn’t.

  From the cover of the town hall’s modest portico, Joe took stock. A sweep of the market stalls showed him no sign of Hazel or Emma. They must have gone to the draper’s shop in search of ribbons. Poor Bart. At any rate, Joe was glad of their absence. He had once told Hazel that Selim would disdain to hurt women or children, but even as he’d said it, he knew that was the old Selim. The exile who had grown bitter enough to follow Joe to his home, to send men around the country to follow him…of that man, Joe was not sure at all.

  Returning his gaze to his quarry, Joe had seen the precise moment he’d become aware of observation. Selim was fingering a bolt of silk, but just for the tiniest instant, his hand, his whole body had stilled. It was all the warning Joe needed to duck back out of sight behind the narrow pillar.

  Some town worthy, whose name and office Joe had temporarily forgotten, emerged from the hall, blinked, and bowed to him. Joe tipped his hat amiably and stepped down into the square; Selim’s back was disappearing down the nearest side street.

  And so began an hour of cat-and-mouse games, the purpose of which Joe was unsure. Although he was wary, Selim did not appear to be leading him into a trap, just on a merry goose chase around the town. As an experiment, Joe once ducked into a doorway and waited there several minutes. He knew he risked losing Selim, but they were nowhere near the market or High Street at that point.

  Sure enough, the tall figure of Selim strolled back around the corner, looking for his pursuer. Joe left his doorway and strode briskly up the street away from Selim. As he bowed to an acquaintance a few minutes later, he saw that Selim was following him.

  It made Joe smile, reminiscent as it was, of games played for their own amusement among the hills and forests of Turkey. Except, of course, Selim was no longer his friend, and Joe could not allow him to hurt his family or Hazel. Hazel, whom Selim might see as supplanting his sister, Nur, in Joe’s still successful life.

  Joe had never felt the surge of panic he knew for Hazel’s safety. Or the sheer determination to protect her at all costs. This, whatever this was between him and Selim, was not a game, not anymore. It had to be brought into the open and ended, not played like a bizarre round of tag where neither party were quite sure about touching the other.

  And so, Joe had simply turned in the street and faced his former friend, several yards behind. Selim had stopped in his tracks, and their eyes met at last. Neither had bowed or greeted each other, either in the eastern or western manner. They had just stared, each trying to gauge the other’s intent.

  In spite of everything, Joe mourned the loss of his friend.

  Abruptly, Selim spun and walked away down a narrow passage between the buildings. Joe, bored with the game, simply ran after him, but the man had vanished. From the far end of the passage, there was no sign of him, and there seemed to be no place for him to have hidden on the way.

  After briefly checking the nearby streets, Joe gave up and strode back to the inn. Selim would return there in the end anyway. He didn’t fear for the rest of the party there. The Pikes would look after Emma and Hazel.

  But as he walked into the yard, Emma and Bart stood there, wildly gesticulating toward the street while they spoke agitatedly to Pike and the ostler. Pike was scratching his head, and Emma was on the verge of tears. Joe’s heart plummeted.

  He almost
ran across the yard.

  “Joe!” Emma cried in relief. “Oh, thank God! They took Hazel, and Mr. Pike won’t give us a horse to—”

  “Who took Hazel?” Joe demanded. The fear that sang in his ears, that could crush him had to be kept at bay. This was a crisis like any other that had to be solved to the advantage—or the perceived advantage—of all.

  “The coach was Lord Barden’s,” Emma said, her eyes wide with shock and fear. It had never entered her head that someone of her world, someone welcomed into her home, could do such a thing.

  Well, he wouldn’t again. Joe had, it seemed, misjudged him. “Which way did the coach go? Not, I take it, back toward Brightoaks?”

  Bart shook his head. “We came outside to see what was keeping Miss Hazel. We were just in time to see a man leap into the coach while it was already moving toward the gate, and then it rolled off that way. According to the innkeeper, the man is your foreign friend.”

  Selim. Fury soared through Joe, dizzyingly fast. Oh, yes, that was betrayal.

  “I’ll catch them,” Joe said grimly. Striding up to the laborers who’d been playing pitch-penny, he began to shrug out of his coat. “Swap,” he barked. “I want your coat and hat for mine.”

  “Joe, what are you doing?” Emma demanded by his elbow. She looked almost more frightened by his behavior than by Hazel’s abduction.

  “I can’t hold up every vehicle on the road on market day,” Joe said distractedly. “Not without an excuse. Word would get around, and I’d be arrested. Worse, there would be a huge scandal.” He took the coat from the larger of the laborers and shrugged himself into it. “Neck-cloth,” he added, tearing off his own.

  Dazed, the large laborer gave up his once bright red and yellow and now muddy and crushed, neckcloth and received Joe’s pristine white one in return. Joe knotted it loosely around his throat, bent and scooped up a handful of mud, which he smeared on his boots and pantaloons.

  “Pike, lend me your double-barreled pistol,” he commanded. “Loaded.”

  Bart, finally catching on to his plan, grinned. “I’ll come with you.”