Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress Read online

  Unless she could put things right before he arrived.

  It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

  “Do you know who he was?” Martin asked, following her in.

  “A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.”

  “It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.”

  “What?” A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. “You should have told me.”

  “Weren’t much time for talking,” Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice sounded disapproving. “He’s a gambler and a libertine. Cuts a swathe through the ladies like a scythe through hay, I’m told. The way he took hold of you fair makes my blood boil. We should never have held him up, neither. His uncle is the magistrate. We’ll be knee deep in Bow Street Runners in a day or so.”

  Eleanor grimaced. “Without money, we’ll starve and what will I tell William? That I carelessly lost his home and fortune?” Her stomach dropped away, her skin turning clammy, the way it did every time she remembered. William had trusted her to look after his interests until he returned. By forging his signature, she’d spent every penny in the bank. And then, out of nowhere Beauworth had demanded repayment of a mortgage she’d known nothing about. Damn him.

  When he realised they couldn’t pay, he’d sent in the bailiffs, forcing her and Sissy to seek refuge where they could.

  If only the ship into which she’d sunk all William’s money would return from the Orient, everything would be all right. The stupid thing seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Her heart picked up speed. What if it never returned?

  And she needed money so they could eat. Blast it all. She had thought she was so dashed clever. Instead, she’d brought them all to the brink of ruin.

  Miserably, she pulled a carrot from the pocket of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.

  “Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,” she said.

  “Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?”

  Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. “Ask for more time.”

  “Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.”

  They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.

  There had to be some other way out. “We need something to trade for the mortgage.”

  “Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.”

  Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. “Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.”

  Martin swung around. “Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.”

  “You are right. It is far too dangerous.” She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?” she asked. “The kissing business?” A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch him. All over. At the thought of her fingertips on his skin, her stomach tumbled in a strangely pleasant dance.

  Blankly she stared at the plank wall with limbs the consistency of honey. She clapped a hand to her mouth. How could she feel this way knowing what this man had done?

  Martin scratched his chin. “My brother never mentioned no kiss, my lady.” Which meant it probably wasn’t true. She felt the heat rise in her face as Martin turned to look at her. “Why did you take his boots?”

  Eleanor still didn’t understand the sudden teasing urge she’d felt and she certainly wouldn’t tell Martin about the way his wicked smile and brush of his lips had turned her insides to porridge. “They were new and he’s a dandy.” She shrugged. “It will annoy him. You know how ridiculous William is about his boots.” Besides, he’d been too bold, too reckless for his own good. A real criminal might have killed him. A lesson in humility would do him good. “Throw them in the pond.”

  She picked up her hat, tucking the wig and mask inside it. She stripped off the coat and waistcoat and handed them to Martin, who hauled the bundle up to the rafters in a net by way of an old block and tackle they’d found in the hayloft. “We will have to ride out again.”

  “Please, my lady. You are risking your neck for naught but a few baubles and a handful of guineas.”

  She winced. As her father’s sergeant in the army and later his steward, Martin would have given his life for her father. Now he held doggedly to his promise to serve his children, but she couldn’t ask him to take any more risks. Not when everything she touched went wrong. “It would serve William best if you returned to Castlefield. Keep an eye on the house. Make sure the bailiffs don’t steal anything.”

  “And let you risk your neck alone?” Martin glowered and shook his shaggy head. “Your father always said you was a handful.”

  A tomboy, he meant. Too competitive for a girl. Too impetuous, Father had said, when Mother defended her. And she’d been so sure she’d show William how well she could handle things in his absence. Pride had definitely ended in a fall. And if she didn’t do something soon, she’d drag the rest of the family into the pit.

  ———

  Garrick groaned and sat up on the floor of the carriage. Cursing, he pulled himself on to the seat and investigated the bump behind his ear with his fingertips. A knot as big as an egg. Blast the woman.

  A comely female at that, if he hadn’t been mistaken. He recalled the spiralling heat between them and her delicate trembles beneath his touch with a searing jolt of desire. For one heady moment, he’d thought he’d wooed her out of her villainous purpose. He might have, too, if she’d been alone. His luck was definitely out. First he’d taken the bit between his teeth to tell Uncle Duncan the bad news, and then he’d been robbed.

  Head aching, he probed the tender spot on his scalp. Brandy might help. He fumbled in his cloak pocket and pulled out his flask. He rubbed some of the alcohol on the lump, hissing at the sting, then took a swig. The servants must have been terrified.

  The abominable pounding in his head increased. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, uttering a sigh when, some twenty minutes later, the carriage crunched on gravel to a gentle stop.

  Beauworth Court.

  Johnson pulled open the door and let down the steps. “My lord? Are you all right? I darsen’t stop on the road.”

  “I’m perfectly all right,” Garrick said, forcing a smile.

  He allowed the coachman to help him out of the carriage and glanced at the house. Stone lions guarded the wide granite steps to the front door. Columns, illuminated by torches, rose up to the first floor with Palladian grace and the lower windows blazed with light. Uncle Duncan must be entertaining. Garrick bit back a groan. Merde. He really did not want to be here.

  “Dan,” he called out. “Bring my coat, please.”

  Dan jumped down with alacrity and dived into the coach for the garment. “’Ere, my lord.”

  “Good. Stay close to me.”

  The gravel stabbed into the soles of his feet as he hobbled up to the front door. “Damn, blaste
d wench.” Why the hell she had stolen his boots he could not imagine.

  On cue, the door opened. The butler, a slick-looking fellow Garrick didn’t recognise, stared down his nose. Recovering swiftly, he stepped back with a bow. “Welcome home, my lord.”

  Hah. “Thank you.” He handed over his greatcoat and headed for the arching sweep of staircase leading to the first-floor chambers.

  A door opened. Light spilled from the dining room. A heavily built figure, his military bearing obvious, strode purposefully across the black and white tiled floor. Duncan Le Clere, his father’s cousin, and Garrick’s trustee for twelve more months.

  Dan ducked behind Garrick as Le Clere’s stern gaze took in the scene. “The devil. What is the meaning of this?”

  “Got held up.” His uncle stiffened. “By highwaymen.” Garrick chuckled at his pathetic humour.

  Le Clere quickened his pace. “Are you injured?” He must have caught a whiff of the brandy because he recoiled. “Or drunk? Is this one of your pranks?” Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.

  “I might be a trifle foxed, but I am fully in possession of my faculties, I assure you. The damned rogues relieved me of my valuables and my boots.”

  Two more men hurried into the vestibule: Matthews, the Beauworth steward, and Nidd, his father’s ancient valet who did for Garrick on the rare occasions he came home.

  “Johnson told us what happened,” Matthews said. “These villains need teaching a lesson.”

  And the beefy Matthews was ready to mete out the punishment. The thought of the saucy little wench in his hands did not sit well in Garrick’s stomach.

  “Send for the constable,” Uncle Duncan said, taking in Garrick’s stockinged feet with raised brows.

  “Not tonight.” Garrick put a hand to his head and winced. “The morning will be soon enough. Right now, I’m for bed.”

  Uncle Duncan’s lips flattened. He glanced toward the dining-room door. “I expected you for dinner. It takes more than a contretemps with the lower orders to keep a man from his duty.”

  “Johnson said they struck his lordship on the head,” Matthews said.

  The hard expression on Le Clere’s face dissolved into concern. “I’m sending for the doctor.”

  The doctor who would poke and prod and wonder. Garrick put up a hand. “A small lump, nothing more. I’ll be well by morning.”

  The broad back stiffened. “A knock on the head, Garrick…I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

  “Don’t fuss.”

  Le Clere recoiled. “But your head, Garrick…”

  A black emptiness rolled out from the centre of Garrick’s chest. He knew what Le Clere was thinking, knew from the wary look in his eyes what he feared, and Garrick honestly couldn’t bear it.

  Garrick rubbed his sore knuckles. Le Clere hadn’t yet heard of the latest débâcle. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I know you mean for the best, but I do not need bleeding or quacking tonight.”

  His uncle blew out a breath. “As you wish. But if there is any sign…” He had no need to finish the sentence; his gentle smile said it all.

  Garrick nodded. “I’ll see the doctor.”

  “So be it,” Le Clere said. “I cannot tell you how good it is to see you come home. There is much to be done, much to learn in the next twelve months, my boy.”

  Hardly a boy. And the rest of it would wait for the morning. “Good night, Uncle. Oh, and I brought my tiger.” He gestured to Dan, who moved closer to Garrick.

  Uncle Duncan glanced at Dan with pursed lips. “He belongs in the stables.” He waved off Garrick’s response. “We will talk tomorrow when you feel better. I must attend my guests. Take good care of him, Nidd. Matthews, I’ll see you in the library later.” He hurried back to the dining room. The stolid Matthews bowed and wandered off.

  Nidd’s cadaverous face was anxious. “He worries about you, my lord. You know how he is.”

  Garrick sighed. “Yes, I know. But I wish to God my father hadn’t tied up my affairs so tightly.”

  “You were but a babe then, my lord. He never dreamed he and your mother would go so early.”

  A regretful silence filled the empty hall. It pressed down on Garrick’s shoulders with the weight of a granite mountain. He started up the stairs.

  In Garrick’s chamber, Nidd eased him out of his coat and went to work on his waistcoat. Garrick gestured at the boy hovering by the door. “My wits were begging. I should have sent him to the stables with Johnson.”

  “Leave him to me, my lord. I’ll see he gets there. Johnson was only saying the other day as how he could use more help.”

  That was another thing. Why so few servants in the house? In the old days there had been a footman stationed in every corridor. Was something wrong? Did he care?

  Sometimes he did, and then the old anger he worked hard to contain erupted.

  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, seeking distance. “Take him now, Nidd. I can manage the rest.” Since he had no boots to be pulled, undressing presented no difficulty. He opened his eyes as Nidd headed out of the door with his hand on Dan’s bony shoulder. “Tell Johnson to treat him gently. He’s had a rough go of things.”

  Eyes closed, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. His fingers sought his fob. Gone. He stared down at his right hand in horror. His signet ring, a family heirloom handed to him by his dying father, had also been stolen. Rage surged in his veins like a racing tide. This time he let it flow unchecked.

  To lose the family signet ring now, when he’d finally made his decision. Damn the woman to hell. Damn him for falling under the spell of her kiss.

  He pulled off his shirt and glared at the tester bed with its carved insignia of the Beauworth arms, the shield and white swan, a motif repeated on the moulded ceilings here and in the dining room. The same as the insignia engraved on his ring. He would have it back if he had to search the length and breadth of England. And when he found the woman, she’d rue the day she’d crossed his path.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning after an early breakfast, Garrick traversed the second-floor gallery and made his way down the sweeping staircase. Marble pillars rose gracefully to support the high carved ceiling above a chequerboard floor he couldn’t look at without cringing. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his composure. He was twenty-four, not a scared child. Nor would he allow his uncle’s cautious solicitude to get under his skin.

  He knocked on the library door out of courtesy and entered. A polished oak desk dominated one end of the long room. Immersed in the papers before him, Uncle Duncan did not look up.

  While Garrick waited, memories curled around him like comforting arms. He could almost hear the sound of his father’s voice, the feel of his arm heavy on Garrick’s young shoulders as they poured over maps or Father told him stories of military engagements.

  On a warm spring day like today, the bank of French windows leading to the balcony would have been thrown open, a breeze heavy with the scent of roses from the garden beyond billowing the heavy blue curtains into the room.

  He hated the smell of roses.

  Garrick blinked, but the recollections remained imprinted in his mind like a flame watched too long: a young boy wide-eyed with imagination, his father, jabbing at the air with his cigar to emphasise some important point of strategy, until Mother chased them out into the fresh air. How his father’s face lit up at the sight of her as she swept in, her powdered black hair piled high, her hands moving as she talked in her mix of French and broken English.

  Mother. Like an icy blast from a carelessly opened door in mid-winter, the warmth fled, leaving only a cold, empty space in his chest. Hell. He would have sent Le Clere a note if it had not been cowardly.

  It seemed to require every muscle in his body, but somehow Garrick slammed the door on his memories. He locked them away in the same way his father’s old maps were locked behind the panelled doors of the library bookcases and focused his attention on Le Clere
instead. Uncle Duncan, as Garrick had called him since boyhood, had grown heavier in the past four years. His ruddy jowls merged with his thick neck. His hair was greyer, but still thick on top and he looked older than his fifty years, no doubt dragged down by responsibility. As if sensing Garrick’s perusal, he raised his flat black eyes. Garrick resisted a desire to straighten his cravat. Damn that the old man could still have that effect on him.

  “Well, Garrick.” The deep voice that had once reached to the far reaches of a parade ground boomed in the normally proportioned library. Garrick winced as the harsh tone reverberated in his still-sensitive skull.

  “What can you tell me about these villains that set upon you last night? This is the second time they’ve robbed a neighbourhood coach.”

  Le Clere took his responsibilities as local magistrate seriously, but Garrick was not going to let the morons who stood for local law and order frighten off the cheeky rogues before he recovered his property.

  He shrugged. “They were masked. I barely caught a glimpse of them before I was struck.” He was certainly not going to admit being bested by a woman and he trusted Johnson to say nothing about that kiss. Damnation. Was he smiling at the memory?

  A sour expression crossed his uncle’s face. “I had hoped you would be of more help. The last man robbed babbled on about a ghost.” He inhaled deeply. Garrick recognised the sign. Control. Uncle Duncan hated it when things did not go according to plan. Apparently in command of himself once more, Le Clere smiled. “No matter. I am simply glad you are here, ready to devote yourself to duty at last.”

  The old man’s hopeful expression twisted the knife of guilt in his gut. He didn’t like to tell him that the command to come back to Beauworth and take up his responsibilities had tipped the scales on his decision.

  “I’ve decided to join the army.”

  Le Clere sat bolt upright in his chair. “You can’t mean it.”

  The anger, always a slow simmer in his blood, rolled swiftly to a boil. He let it show in his face. “I certainly do.”