Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (36 page)

He glared at her but did not speak, and she left him, making her way as quickly as possible toward the others, searching the crowd for Deverill and trying to sort out her feelings. He had grabbed her against her will, and she had resisted, but odd though it seemed now in view of her terrifying experience with Seacourt, she had not been afraid, and if the truth were told, she was glad he had kissed her. She knew she had overreacted to his confrontation with Seacourt, that although her anger had been genuine, it had manifested itself against the wrong man.

Gideon left Almack’s with a strong sense of ill-usage, but he was even angrier with himself than with Daintry. She had been right to berate him for striking Seacourt, and though he could not really regret it, he was not by any means certain why he had done it. He had seen her go into the anteroom with the man, and knowing she did not like him, had wondered if Seacourt had forced her. Then, coming upon the scene, he had been certain Seacourt had, and had reacted instantly and without the slightest thought. Such behavior was unlike him. He was better trained than that.

As he strode west along King Street to the walkway leading to St. James’s Street, he remembered her fury and smiled. Other young women of his acquaintance would at least have pretended to be grateful for being rescued, but not that one. She had been furious. Her eyes had sparkled, and her breasts had filled out her muslin gown magnificently. Shaking his head at himself, he saw that the torches lighting the alleyway ahead had gone out, making it unnaturally dark. As the thought crossed his mind, three figures loomed out of the black shadow, cudgels raised.

Deverill fought hard, but he was outnumbered, and though he knocked down two of the villains, the third got in a single, decisive blow with his club. The last thing Deverill heard before losing consciousness was a chorus of angry shouts from the King Street end of the walkway.

He came to slowly, feeling hands lightly slapping his face and chafing his hands. A flask was held to his lips and tilted. Choking on a mouthful of raw, fiery brandy, he tried to push the flask away and opened his eyes. The torches had been relighted, and he found himself staring into an anxious, freckled face that he had never again expected to see.

“Thought you were a goner for sure,” Viscount Penthorpe said cheerfully. “Dashed glad you ain’t.”

O
NE OF PENTHORPE’S COMPANIONS
hailed a hackney coach in St. James’s Street, and Penthorpe climbed in beside Gideon, bidding his friends good night. Gideon, leaning his aching head against the squabs and feeling a little sick, nonetheless could not contain his curiosity a moment longer. “Where the devil did you spring from? I thought you were dead.”

Penthorpe chuckled, but before he replied, he put down the window and shouted, “Hey, there, jarvey, there’s no need to rattle us along at such a pace. Take it slow, man.”

The rocking of the coach eased somewhat, and Gideon let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Andy. Now, answer my question.”

“No use giving me orders anymore, old son. You’ve sold out, if I haven’t, and I needn’t listen to ’em anymore. What’s more, you’re sick as a horse, so you’d best keep mum till we reach Jervaulx House if you don’t want to disgrace yourself all over this coach. Not,” he added with a fastidious sniff, “that anyone would notice much difference if you did.”

“But I saw you on the field,” Gideon murmured. “I found the miniature and saw your red hair.” The memory of what else he had seen nearly undid him, and for a moment his attention was fixed upon calming his stomach. Penthorpe’s chuckle sounded heartless.

“Not mine, you didn’t,” he said. “Some other poor stiff it must have been. Can’t tell you what a turn it gave me to learn I was supposed to be dead. A friend had the
Times,
all the way from London, and there it was that I’d fallen at Waterloo. Had to look in the glass and pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t true.”

“But your uncle put that in months ago! How the—”

“Not now. Take a damper, will you, till we get you home and I can have a good look at that lump on your head. Daresay you ought to have a bloodsucker to take a look as well.”

“Not necessary,” Gideon muttered. “I don’t need a doctor.”

But when they reached the huge mansion on the banks of the Thames that had been the London home of the Marquesses of Jervaulx for two hundred years, it was Jervaulx himself who decreed that a doctor should be fetched, and Gideon, whose head was aching more by the minute, did not argue. But when he had been helped to his bedchamber, and Penthorpe would have left him there, he said with a grim note in his voice, “Don’t you dare stir a foot out of this room until you have explained yourself to me, Andy, or by heaven, when I get up—”

“Oh, very well, don’t distress yourself,” Penthorpe said, grinning at him. “I’ll stay if your father don’t throw me out.”

Jervaulx, who had accompanied them upstairs, said, “You must do as you please, of course,” and left them alone.

“Still a dashed cold fish, I see,” Penthorpe said when the door was safely shut. “Talks like a book. Never known anyone like him. Don’t mind telling you, he frightens me to death.”

“Speaking of your death,” Gideon said, ignoring his pounding head in his determination to get the story, “what the devil—”

“Oh, very well, I daresay the sawbones won’t get here for a good while yet. Like as not your father’s man will have to roust him out of bed at this hour. Fact is, I wasn’t killed.”

“I can see that, damn you. What happened?”

“Horse fell on me,” Penthorpe said. “Had a ball in my shoulder, too, but the horse was much worse, and the devil of it was that I couldn’t get free. Cannonballs flying all around me, and a lot of screaming and yelling that seemed to go on for hours, but I couldn’t see a thing. Could scarcely breathe, for that matter. Someone fell on top of me—on the horse, that is—and I was in the deuce of a lot of pain. I must have blacked out, for the next thing I knew it was morning, and much more quiet. Not that I could hear birds, or anything pleasant like that, mind you. Just a lot of moaning and more screams, though nothing like before. Then I heard a female’s voice, calling for someone named Jean-Paul, and I remember wishing I were Jean-Paul and someone would come and get me. My brain must not have been working because it was the devil of a time before it occurred to me to shout to the wench to get the damned horse off me, but I did it at last, and she got someone with a wagon to help.”

“Who was she? A Frenchie?”

“No, Belgian woman, name of Marie de Larrey, looking for her husband. Found him, too, if you can believe that. Wounded, like me, but still alive and kicking. She got us both into the wagon and rattled us home to her village. Worst ride of my life, I can tell you, for I had a broken rib, I think, and the damned ball in my shoulder. I picked up some infection or other afterward, so it was a good long while before I was fit, but here I am.”

“It’s been months, Andy,” Gideon said sternly.

“Well, I was delirious for a time, you know—didn’t even know I wasn’t in England. And later, well, the village was a pleasant place, and the people very friendly, and no one seemed in any hurry for me to leave. Didn’t see that dashed paper until January—no season for travel then, of course—and I kept meaning to write to someone here, but …” He shrugged ruefully. “You know how I am about that sort of thing, Gideon.”

“None better,” Gideon said sourly. “Why come back now?”

“It was spring, and I got restless,” Penthorpe said simply. “I ask you, Gideon, would you like to be stuck in a Belgian village when you might be in London for the Season?”

“Your reappearance is going to shock a good many people, I should think. Does Tattersall know yet?”

“Well, he’s in town, I think, but I haven’t quite got round to seeing him yet. I’ll do it tomorrow, of course. Have to arrange to sell out properly, too, I suppose. Just got here late this afternoon, you see, and straightaway went looking for you. Went to the clubs—to Brooks’s and White’s, at least—before someone chanced to mention that it was opening night at Almack’s. Not dressed for it but came round anyway, hoping to get a message in to you if you were there. Just pure dumb luck I came along in time to be of any help. Didn’t even know it was you at first. Wouldn’t have expected you to escape the place so early.”

Gideon gave him a look. “Your betrothed told me to leave.”

“My betrothed?” Penthorpe’s expression altered rapidly from bewilderment to a blank look. “I’d hoped … that is, I’d feared that was all off by now. Didn’t you tell her I was dead?”

“Yes, but since you are not, and since no other arrangement has been made for her, I have a feeling her father is going to welcome you back with open arms. Not that you seem so delighted, Andy. Did Mrs. de Larrey have a pretty little sister?”

Penthorpe shook his head. “No, no, not at all. I ain’t such a paltry fellow as all that, dash it, though I did get to thinking what a good thing it was that I hadn’t got married before Waterloo—and left a grieving widow, don’t you know?”

Gideon started to nod, remembered his headache, and said, “I do know, but you’ll have to keep your vow, you know.”

“Well, of course, I will. Good God, what else can I do? If I’d realized—What’s she like, Gideon?”

“As beautiful as her picture,” Gideon said. “She has a mind of her own though, just as you were told.”

Penthorpe eyed him uneasily. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“She holds a sadly unfavorable opinion of our sex, Andy.”

“She don’t like men? Good God, what sort of female is she?”

Gideon hesitated, thinking of all the words he might use. Finally, watching Penthorpe closely, he said, “She’s aggravating, exasperating, and too damned hot at hand for her own good, but with a light hand on the rein I think you’ll like her, Andy.”

“Good God.” Penthorpe looked appalled, but he rallied quickly, saying hastily, “That is … well, I say, I hope you haven’t been trying to bridle her yourself, Gideon.” His laugh was forced. “What I mean to say is, I’d find myself ditched if you were to wave your expectations at the lass, don’t you think?”

Gideon did not answer at once, but when Penthorpe began to look rather hopeful, he said quietly, “She’s a woman of her word, Andy. She won’t cry off.”

“Well, you needn’t make it sound like I want her to do any such thing,” Penthorpe said quickly. “Couldn’t say so if I did, not even to my best friend, not without looking like a dashed scoundrel, but you’re talking fustian, you know. Cried off three times before, didn’t she? My uncle told me so.”

Gideon smiled. “The other times were different, or at least she would say they were. This time she gave her word of honor to her father and that, in her view, will make all the difference.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I suppose St. Merryn is in town. I’ll have to see him at once.”

“The whole family is in town,” Gideon said, shifting his position. His headache was easing, so long as he did not move without caution.

“Lady Susan and Seacourt, too?”

“Yes. You might as well know before you hear it from the tabbies that there was an unfortunate turn-up in that household before Christmas. Lady Susan ran away from her husband.”

“Ran away? Why?” Penthorpe’s gaze sharpened.

Instead of answering directly, Gideon said, “Seacourt was forced to apply to a magistrate for a writ of
habeas corpus
to get her back.”

“Don’t babble Latin at me. What the devil does it mean?”

“That she had to return to him or appear before the same magistrate to give cause for not doing so. She said Seacourt beat her. She was heavily veiled, so we did not see her face, but he did not deny it.”

“The devil, you say! Good thing she left him if you ask me. He was a Captain Hackum at school, too. Where’s she living now?”

“The magistrate sent her home.”

“What? How could that be?”

“It’s the law, Andy, even when the fellow’s a bully.”

“Damned fool law,” Penthorpe growled. “Damned fool magistrate, too. What a devilish thing to do! But how do you know all this? Surely, it was not all in the papers.”

“I was there. The magistrate was my father.”

“But, look here, he’s a marquess now,” Penthorpe said. “What’s he doing still playing at being a magistrate?”

“He cannot seem to let his old duties go. They were part of his life for so long and the title came to him so unexpectedly that I daresay it’s difficult for him to leave old obligations behind for the new ones. He’s been trying to do both.”

“It don’t sound as if he’s making a good job of either one. If he could make such a dashed silly decision in Lady Susan’s case, just think what a muck he’ll make of being a marquess!”

Gideon was spared the necessity of a reply by the arrival of the doctor, who greeted him cheerfully, demanded to know what he had done to knock himself up, and announced that he would just bind up his head and cup him, and he would be right as a trivet in no time. Penthorpe fled, but not before promising on his oath to visit both his uncle and St. Merryn the very next day.

The following afternoon, when Penthorpe’s name was announced Daintry dropped the teapot she had been using to pour out tea for several lady callers, and it smashed to pieces, taking a number of china cups and saucers with it.

Lady St. Merryn, clasping a hand to her bosom, cried out in dismay, “The best Sèvres china, Daintry! Whatever were you thinking! And tea stains all over your lovely gown. They will never come out. My salts, Ethelinda!”

Miss Davies complied at once, and Lady Jerningham, who sat beside Daintry and had been entertaining the others with her opinion of the Prince of Saxe-Coburg, newly arrived in England and now known to be the Princess Charlotte’s intended bridegroom, snatched her skirts out of harm’s way and said austerely, “Very careless of you, my dear Daintry.”

Lady Ophelia said calmly, “Clear away the mess, Medrose, and give Miss Daintry a napkin to blot up the tea on her gown. You might have sent to warn us that you were still alive, young man, rather than bursting in upon us in such dramatic fashion. Since you are here, however, pray let me make you known to Lady St. Merryn, and to Ladies Jerningham and Cardigan. I,” she added, “am Daintry’s great-aunt, Ophelia Balterley.”