Have You Any Rogues? (6 page)

Not without bringing down the entire household to witness this scene. And worse, demand an explanation.

Then it occurred to her that all she had to do was go along with him. Then, once he was lured into believing she wasn’t going to bolt out the door, she’d slip past him.

Certainly she could get to the docks before Crispin’s boat sailed.

She just must!

But Christopher hadn’t lived with her for all these years without being used to her tricks. The moment she stopped kicking up a fuss, he laughed.

“Won’t work, Hen. I cannot allow you to do this.” And without another word, he deposited her into the footman’s closet in the front hall, closed the door in her face and locked it. She heard the distinctive scrape of a chair, and then what she assumed was Christopher settling in to wait her out.

She whirled around to find there was only the small oriel window in the corner, not even big enough for her to get her head out. And through the round window came the gleaming light that told the entire story.

Dawn had broken. And so did her heart.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Seldons have only one care: their own unruly passions.

A
TRUTH
UNIVERSALLY
KNOWN
BY
ALL
DALES

Owle Park, 1810

“R
ather ironic it was Preston who kept you from being ruined,” Crispin pointed out.

Hen looked up from where she was examining the bottles on the shelves and tried to ignore his slight, but she decided to turn it to her advantage. “You might have learned a lesson from him.”

“From Preston?” Crispin snorted.

“Yes, well, if you had followed his example, you would have been able to stop your cousin from seducing my brother.” She smirked a bit, especially at his outrage over having the entire Henry and Daphne debacle laid at his feet.

Never mind that her brother was deliriously happy with his Dale bride.

“How was I to know what lengths your brother would resort to if only to ruin her?”

“He
married
her,” Hen pointed out. Something Crispin had failed to offer when he’d asked her to run off with him.

“Marriage is no guarantee of happiness,” he muttered.

Hen couldn’t argue with that. In fact, she silently agreed with him. How her life might have been different if only . . .

“I tried to meet you,” Hen told him. “I would have gone to Paris with you.”

“Actually, I’ve always been a bit relieved you didn’t,” Crispin offered. “Whatever would I have done if you had been caught up as I was? No, it was better that you remained in London.”

For Crispin hadn’t come home as he’d planned.

And all the while she’d waited, her fury at Christopher knowing no bounds.

But even that had faded once any hope of Crispin’s ever returning was lost.

Bletcher House

Surrey, 1805

“L
ady Astbury?”

Henrietta turned around slowly. She’d come down to dinner early, for there wasn’t much to primping and dressing when one could only wear black. “Yes, Lord Michaels?” She smiled slightly at the rake. Not to encourage him but to tease the fellow a bit.

She shouldn’t even have been attending a house party, but when the invitation had arrived, she’d hardly been able to refuse—not when she’d learned that her hosts had engaged a noted tenor to sing for the party.

Besides, it was only another month before she’d be out of her weeds for good, so it was hardly that unseemly for her to appear in public.

Not that her mourning period had mattered much to the rogue’s gallery of suitors who had been sniffing about since Astbury’s accident—including this handsome devil, Lord Michaels, the baron being one of her more persistent admirers.

“Lady Astbury,” the baron repeated in that sultry voice of his, a rich, deep baritone that left her shivering.

Of all the men in her circle of admirers, she found him the most intriguing.

In another time, Lord Michaels would have been the sort to catch the eye of a Virgin Queen, his sharp tongue and sweet words convincing her to finance his pirate adventures. In fact, it was rumored that was exactly how one of his forebearers had managed his barony and the family fortune. This Michaels had inherited not only the title and the money but also the infamous Michaels features—bright eyes, a hawkish nose and dark, coal black hair.

The man had left a wake of swooning ladies and broken hearts in London, but Hen alone had remained aloof to his overtures.

Her grief—she told herself—so raw and fresh was what was keeping her heart from being engaged. But that was merely the lie she told herself to keep from admitting the truth.

She was still waiting for another. As foolish as that might be.

Rather like her flirtation with Michaels. Though she did like the way he made her laugh. Forget her misery, which for the last few months had wound around her like an unbreakable chain—having lost her mother, her husband and then her father in quick succession.

And yet here was Lord Michaels, writing her poetry. Foolish bits of nonsense, so that she couldn’t help but be touched.

Perhaps this poetic streak was what had finally convinced old Queen Bess to raise up the first upstart Michaels.

“Have you heard?” the baron teased. “That there has been a horrible mistake with supper.”

That caught her attention. “A mistake?”

“Yes,” he told her, coming into the empty drawing room. “A most dreadful one. Our hostess—” he shuddered a bit, and Hen knew exactly what he meant.

Lady Bletcher was a horror—a dim-witted flibbertigibbet who could barely order a proper tea, let alone arrange a complete supper. But what did one expect when Lord Bletcher had been married three times, with each wife considerably younger than the last?

And if it was possible, sillier than her predecessor.

The newest Lady Bletcher was no more than seventeen, an ornament merely, and worse, a
cit
’s daughter who had brought an enormous dowry to her marriage and now fancied herself quite the tonnish Original. And her knowledge—or, rather, lack thereof—of the simplest matters such as precedence at the table was shocking.

And honestly, no one of any consequence would have accepted the invitation to Bletcher House, the earl’s country seat, if it hadn’t been for the fact that Lady Bletcher’s money had enabled the infamous newlyweds to bring Menghini to entertain at their house party.

So treasured was Menghini’s voice that he refused to sing to the usual large audiences of the grand playhouses and insisted on performing only for small, select parties.

And even then, only those who could afford his exorbitant demands.

Hen would have gone and stayed with that aged harridan Damaris Dale to have had this opportunity to hear the infamous Italian sing.

“It isn’t Signor Menghini—”

“No, no, the fellow is all well and good. Proud sort, rather fussy. When I went by the dining room he was explaining to Lady Bletcher that he must have the most bland of meals to keep his throat in balance.” Michaels snorted, as if that was the most amusing notion he’d ever heard.

Hen would have pointed out that Signor Menghini’s very purse depended on that throat, so perhaps the man’s demands were rather important to him.

“So if it isn’t Signor Menghini, then what has dinner in such a state of disarray?” she asked.

“Someone has finally explained precedence to Lady Bletcher.” He shook his head woefully.

“About time,” Hen said without thinking.

Michaels laughed. “Yes, that may be so, but it also means you and I are now separated and you have a new dining companion—other than Lord Bletcher.” He waggled his brows at this, for it had been the baron who’d guessed rather astutely as to why Hen had been invited—Lord Bletcher thought she might make an excellent fourth Lady Bletcher in the event this one turned up her toes as quickly as the other Lady Bletchers had done.

While the baron continued to smirk, Hen ran through the list of guests and tried to determine who might be beside her.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Michaels offered. “Some viscount has usurped my spot—demmed cheeky fellow. Just arrived. Distant cousin of some sort of Lord Bletcher’s, but I think it’s the flimsiest of connections, and one made only to hear that Italian sing.”

Hen smiled. She had been about to do the same thing—stretch the branches of her family tree before her invitation had arrived.

“He’s a pompous fellow,” Michaels was saying over his shoulder from where he’d stopped to examine the small collection of books on one wall. “But everyone is making such a fuss over him all because he managed to escape the demmed Frenchies.”

Henrietta’s world stopped. “
Escaped
?” Her insides quaked at the very word, and she drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

No, it couldn’t be. Still, why couldn’t she breathe? Why was the floor suddenly spinning?

“Yes,” Michaels said, pulling a book off the shelf, completely unaware of her turmoil. “Got caught in Paris when the Peace failed in ’03. Been locked away ever since. Foolish of him being over there to begin with. Never saw any reason to cross the Channel. Nothing but foreigners over there.”

Henrietta shook her head. Not so much at Michaels’s own pomposity but at the growing blaze of hope that had ignited in her heart.

Escaped.

What if it was him?

She glanced away and indulged in a familiar remembrance—his lips upon hers. The very scent of him. This wasn’t the first time she’d drifted back to that night, yet now she wondered if her memories, after all this time, were more fanciful than truly real.

Could a kiss have been so . . . so . . . unforgettable?

Hen drew in a deep breath. And here she’d vowed, promised herself, to forget him. She’d had to. When it had appeared that all hope had been lost, she’d had no choice but to bow to her family’s expectations and marry Astbury.

Astbury . . . Henrietta flinched a little at his memory. While she’d been overly fond of the marquess, it hadn’t been a marriage based on love for either of them.

And his kisses?

Oh, they’d been satisfactory, she supposed—but there never had been that breathless sort of destiny when Astbury had kissed her, the sense of being claimed like when Crispin Dale had teased his lips over hers . . . when his hands had roamed deliberately, possessively, over her body.

Just then, the rest of the guests arrived, as well as their hostess, who had come to announce dinner. Hen found herself quickly scanning the faces.

Hoping.

“Should I be jealous?” Michaels asked, having returned to her side.

“Pardon?”

“You appear to be looking for someone.”

The fellow was far too astute—and practiced, she supposed. “Of course. You know how I love a good diversion.”

He waggled his brows at her. “Later on, I could be most diverting.”

Henrietta made the sort of snort that her Great-Aunt Zillah was infamous for—a huff of amusement and derision all at once. “I’m hardly looking to be diverted,” she told him, even as she watched the rest of the guests arrive.

All to no avail.

But she was rather used to the hopelessness of it all, and she forced a smile upon her lips as she had so many times since Crispin Dale had left London with her heart.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

How do you know a Dale is lying? When they give you their word.

THE
SELDONS
’
FAVORITE
SAYING

“A
h, there you are, my lord! I thought we’d lost you,” Lady Bletcher was saying as two late arrivals appeared in the dining room. She bustled the man to his place at the table and said, “May I present your charming dinner partner, Lady Astbury.”

As the mysterious fellow turned around, Henrietta’s heart stopped.

Crispin.

The same and yet so utterly changed.

“My lord,” she managed, dipping into a short curtsy.

“Lady Astbury,” he said, bowing slightly so his gaze never left hers.

There was a sniff from behind him, and the viscount stepped aside to reveal his great-aunt, Damaris Dale.

She sniffed again, spared a scant, yet scathing, glance at Henrietta, then followed Lady Bletcher down the table to her place near the vicar and Lord Juniper’s spinster sister.

Henrietta barely gave the lady any regard, for she was too busy taking in every detail of Crispin: his hair, falling long about his shoulders and barely trimmed; how his jacket was too big on his spare frame; then, finally, the set of his jaw.

Determined and unyielding.

And it seemed he was doing much the same as he studied her, for she saw very clearly the exact moment when he took in her mourning gown and his brows tilted. “And my condolences on the loss of your—”

“My father,” she replied.

“Yes, yes,” their feather-headed hostess chimed in, having returned from her duties. “Poor Lady Astbury, just out of mourning for her departed husband when her father leaves her back in weeds yet again. How lucky for you that black becomes you, Lady Astbury.” The lady smiled as if that boon made up for all of Henrietta’s grief. “Oh, dear, there is the Italian. Bletcher wants him made to feel most welcome. With what we are paying him I should think it would be the other way around.” She heaved a sigh and departed.

Up and down the grand table, people were finding their seats and greeting each other, but to Hen there was only one other person in the room.

Him.

“You got away,” she said, feeling the hot sting of tears in her eyes. She dashed at them before they made their unruly appearance.