Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride (7 page)

‘Good day, your lordship.' The man—Jenks, he remembered—touched his forelock. ‘I was just telling this gentleman about his late lordship's hunters. Sad day when he decided to sell them, that was. You've a fine pair of riding horses, my lord. Arab blood, I can see.'

‘Yes, out of an English hunter mare for size by an Arab stallion for endurance. They are brothers. Tell me, Jenks, I have been coming to the conclusion that I have been away from England so long I am forgetting the language—what cant uses for nun or nunnery are there?'

The man looked incredulous, then grinned. ‘Well, my lord, only meaning I know is for an academy, if you know
what I mean, and its young ladies. A cony warren, my lord.'

‘A brothel, in effect? Yes, that was my understanding also.' So that explained the fury, but it did not explain why a respectable young lady would know what it meant. Gregor was obviously keeping a straight face at the cost of painful self-control. ‘Thank you, Jenks. I have indeed been away too long.'

‘And you can stop looking like that,' he said to Gregor once they were out of earshot of the groom. ‘I was perfectly aware of
that
meaning, I was simply wondering if there was another I did not know.'

‘It is a good word for a brothel,' Gregor said, seriously. ‘Your English is amusing, I find. Perhaps I will seek one out when I am in London and perform my devotions with the pretty nuns. A pity you are in disgrace, my friend, or you could give me introductions and I could chase the society ladies as well.'

‘It will take a little while. I can secure invitations around the edges of society to begin with,' Quinn said. ‘And then I move in.' He had given this some thought during the long journey back to England.

There had been time to plot his reinstatement into the
ton
, time to think about how uncomfortable he could make those who had tricked and condemned him and whose scheming had left his great-uncle to a lonely old age for the sin of defending him. He had not realised until that last letter just how isolated the old man had become, and guilt at his own absence did nothing to lessen his anger.

‘We could have some fun amongst the less respectable, more dashing, ladies.'

‘Almack's?' Gregor asked hopefully. ‘I have heard of Almack's. Many pretty virgins. Rich ones, also.'

‘Almack's would not let either of us through the doors,' Quinn assured him. ‘But I would pay a good sum to see you there, a big bad wolf amidst the lambs.' No, they would not admit either of them…yet. But the new Lord Dreycott with his reputation as a traveller and scholar could insinuate himself into the world of the men of learning, many of whom were influential members of society. If he played his cards right, he could be accepted back almost before those who recalled the old scandal were aware of his presence. Then he must rely on his wits and his money to stay within the charmed inner circle while having his pleasure with its womenfolk and his revenge on its men.

It would be amusing. The prodigal returns, far from penitent and reformed, but possessing now all the wickedness he was unjustly expelled for in the first place.

He had not lied to Celina; he did intend to spend more time in London in scholarly pursuits, in writing, in the libraries, at lectures, about his business interests. But he had no intention of skulking around pretending to be shamed by a ten-year-old scandal. He was not at all embarrassed, merely coldly determined to enjoy every facet of London life, and that included, when he was in the mood, the world of the
ton
.

And this time, if any wives or daughters of the aristocracy threw themselves at his head, he would have not the slightest scruple about taking everything that they offered. A momentary stab of self-disgust caught him off balance. Once he had been the perfect young English gentleman: gallant, virtuous, scrupulous.
Fool
, he thought.
Look where that got you.
Innocence once lost was lost for ever—he was what he had become, the product of hard choices and sharp disillusion.

But meanwhile he had no intention of trying to ingra
tiate himself with minor Norfolk society. He had Great-Uncle Simon's memoirs to complete, the library and papers to sort out and the intriguing and mysterious Miss Haddon to… To what? Quinn asked himself as he went upstairs to wash before a belated luncheon. That all depended what she really was. Innocent or something else?

That kiss on the lookout platform high in the trees had been pleasurable, but its ending had not just been frustrating and painful, it had also been confusing. He ran his tongue between his lips as he made himself think of it analytically, conscious that the memory of Celina's hot mouth, her soft body, the vicious little nip of her teeth, was as arousing as it was unsatisfying.

She had not reacted like a shocked and sheltered virgin, he concluded, ignoring the heaviness in his groin as he washed in cold water. She had resisted for a moment, but he thought that was surprise and anger. There had been an awareness there, a flare of passion and a calculating cunning to feign surrender so she could lure him in, bite and escape. She had been angry with him, unmistakably, but she had also let him carry her, had talked to him calmly and with interest.

Last night she had seemed to get tipsy and to flirt—was that a ploy, or innocence out of its depth?

No, the mystery of Celina Haddon was most definitely still as intriguing as ever. Quinn raked his hands through his hair, caught sight of himself in the mirror and grinned. It seemed that it would be necessary to kiss Miss Haddon again if he wanted to find out more.

‘You look very pleased with yourself,' Gregor remarked, emerging from a door a little further along the corridor as Quinn shut his own behind him. ‘Have you seen the room your little virgin has put me in now?'

‘She is not my little anything, at the moment,' Quinn said, as he looked past the Russian into the room behind. ‘Hades, is that a museum?' The bed was stranded in the midst of a veritable zoo of immobile creatures of every variety of feather, fur and scales.

‘I think so.' Gregor kicked a stuffed alligator with one booted foot. ‘She has a sense of humour, Miss Celina.'

‘She is punishing you for teasing the household,' Quinn observed. ‘Choose another room.'

‘And have her think she has frightened me with her creatures?' The other man grinned. ‘No, I will thank her lavishly. Perhaps she would like to be entertained in here. She might find it…exciting.'

‘Hands off.' Quinn spoke mildly, but Gregor made the fencer's signal of surrender.

‘I would not dream of poaching in my lord's hunting grounds.'

‘Any more of that
my lord
nonsense and I'll crack your thick skull,' Quinn retorted as they made for the head of the stairs. ‘And I am not hunting.'

Liar
, he thought as they made their way into the dining room to find Celina seated at the table, her hair twisted up into a simple knot at the back of her head. A few tendrils escaped and curled at her temples and nape. The colour was high in her cheeks and she met his eyes with wary defiance in her own.
Oh, yes, I am hunting and she knows it. But what is my quarry? A little doe or a cunning feline? That is the question.

A
s Lina had predicted, the lawyer was followed next day by first Dr Massingbird, the physician, then Mr Armstrong from the bank and finally the Reverend Perrin, looking, as Michael the footman observed after he had shown him to the study, as though he had sat on a poker.

None of them had required a summons. Doctor Massingbird seemed more than happy to call upon a gentleman who offered him a most excellent Amontillado and could compare notes on the Iberian Peninsula where he had once been an army doctor, but Mr Armstrong had the air of a man who knew he must do his duty by his bank and the vicar looked ready to perform an exorcism when he was shown in.

Quinn had not been exaggerating his reputation in the neighbourhood, she realised. She also realised she was thinking of him not as Lord Dreycott, nor even Ashley, but most improperly simply as
Quinn
. She had been kissed by the man, she told herself, and that certainly argued a degree of intimate acquaintance that explained it, even if it did not excuse it.

She kept finding excuses to pass through the hall and keep an eye on the study door, waiting with bated breath for either the vicar to stalk out of the presence of sin in high dudgeon, as her father most certainly would, or for Quinn to explode with anger after receiving a lecture on his dissolute ways.

Neither occurred.

 

She was arranging flowers in a vase on the hall table when the vicar finally emerged, looking slightly less rigid than when he had arrived. ‘Mr Perrin.' She dropped a neat curtsy, her hands full of evergreen stems.

‘Miss Haddon. I trust we will see you in church on Sunday as usual?'

‘Certainly, sir.' She had attended every Sunday since her arrival, the rhythms of a country Sunday curiously soothing, even though she had been so unhappy in her own village and old Lord Dreycott had flatly refused to accompany her.

The vicar smiled at her and nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent. Miss Haddon, do you have a respectable female to bear you company now circumstances here have changed?'

‘Mrs Bishop, sir.'

‘Hmm. A good woman, but I would wish you had a
lady
in residence.'

‘Thank you for your concern, but I feel quite…comfortable with the present circumstances, sir.'

That was hardly true, but advertising for some respectable companion was too fraught with dangers to be contemplated. ‘Should I need the benefit of female guidance, I am sure I might call upon Miss Perrin's advice.' The vicar's sister, small, timid, with a perpetually red nose and the air of anxious piety, would hardly be much protection
against a hardened rake, but the thought seemed to please the vicar.

‘Of course you may, Miss Haddon. Perhaps you would care to join the Ladies' Hassock Sewing Circle?'

‘I would love to; however, my needlepoint is sadly clumsy.' It was excellent, in fact, but Lina had sewn far too many hassocks for her father's church in Martinsdene to want to start again now.

Trimble produced the vicar's wide-brimmed hat, his gloves and cane and ushered him out of the door, leaving Lina to reflect that they had now received all the calls they were likely to.

‘Would the Ladies' Hassock Sewing Circle not be amusing?' The study door swung open to reveal Quinn lounging against the jamb.

‘You were listening at the keyhole,' Lina said severely, disguising the fact that her hands had become suddenly shaky by jamming foliage into the back of the vase.

‘Of course. Think of the gossip you would pick up at the sewing circle.'

‘I never want to sew another hassock as long as I live,' she said vehemently, then could have kicked herself as speculation came into the green eyes. ‘My aunt is very devout,' she explained, crossing her fingers in the folds of her skirt before sweeping the plant trimmings into her trug and adjusting the vase.

‘There is no need to hurry off, Celina. I am unlikely to ravish you on the hard hall floor.'

‘Or anywhere, my lord, so long as I have a weapon in my hand,' she retorted, adding the trimming knife to the trug.

‘Am I not forgiven?' Quinn had not seen fit to have his hair cut, nor to adopt a more formal style of dress in
anticipation of his callers. Lina wondered whether he was aware of how well the buckskin breeches and high boots, the white of his unstarched linen and the relaxed fit of the tailcoat over broad shoulders, suited him. Probably very aware, she concluded, just as he knew how spectacular he looked in his Oriental evening clothes. But it was not vanity, she suspected, but quite deliberate manipulation of those around him.

Today he wanted to make the point that he was a country gentleman at ease in his home and, while courteous to his visitors, not in any way concerned to impress them.
Take me as you find me
, he seemed to be saying.
I am Dreycott now.

‘Are you asking my pardon, my lord? If you are sorry, then of course I forgive you.'

‘But I am not sorry,' Quinn said softly. ‘Only that it was a less-than-satisfactory experience for both of us.'

‘If you are not repentant, then you cannot hope for forgiveness.'
Now I sound like Papa!

‘I am reproved, Celina.' The green eyes mocked her, putting the lie to his words. ‘And how are your bruises today? And the part you sat upon so hard?'

‘My bruises are multi-coloured and I am somewhat stiff, my lord.' Lina put her arm through the handle of the trug. ‘If you will excuse me, I have the vases to do in the dining room.'

‘Why have I become
my lord
again?' Quinn asked. He straightened up and stood, with one hand on the door jamb, looking at her steadily.

Lina hoped she was not blushing. ‘I find it hard to speak to you in any other way after yesterday.'

‘So your tongue becomes formal, to act as a barrier,' he said. ‘And how do you think of me, I wonder?' Now
she
was
blushing and he had seen it and that wicked smile was creasing the corners of his eyes and twitching at his mouth. ‘As Quinn now, perhaps?'

The lessons in flirtation came to her aid. Lina lowered her lashes, fluttered her free hand and said demurely, ‘I could not possible say…my lord.'

As she hoped, he thought she was laughing at him and not being serious. The grin became a smile and he shook his head at her. ‘The vicar thinks you should have a chaperon. He obviously considers this a house of sin.'

‘He enquired if I had one and I told him that Mrs Bishop was quite sufficient, as you will know as you were listening at the door. And the
house
is not sinful, my lord.' With that she stepped into the dining room and shut the door behind her. Would he come in? No, she heard booted steps on the marble heading for the front door.

Lina stood and stared at the empty vase set ready for her flowers. She was enjoying her encounters with Quinn, she realised. She liked his frankness, his teasing, the lack of hypocrisy and cant, even as she was wary of him and frightened of her own reaction to his dangerous charm. The
frisson
of sensual awareness that quivered through her at the thought or sight of him was predictable, she told herself. She was so inexperienced with the opposite sex that any handsome man paying her that sort of attention would produce the same effect.

Quinn was, she could see clearly, the first adult male she had ever been so close to other than her father, and he happened to be an attractive, virile, intelligent, charming, unscrupulous male into the bargain. If temptation was made flesh it would probably be called Quinn Ashley.

It was very fortunate that she had observed the consequences for a woman who fell into sin at first hand. Most
of the girls working at The Blue Door had started their journey to the brothel with seduction at the hands of a sweetheart—just as Mama had. A briar thorn stuck in her thumb and she sucked it, wincing at the metallic taste of blood. Papa would turn that into a sermon—the apparently innocent loveliness of the flower hiding pain and danger. But she did not need a preacher to warn her that she was flirting with peril.

Celina began to work on the arrangement, straightening her bruised back as though to stiffen her resolve. Quinn Ashley was too much temptation even for an experienced society lady, let alone her. She must avoid him whenever possible.

 

Lina succeeded in staying out of Quinn's way most effectively. She appeared at luncheon and dinner, made unexceptional conversation, refused to notice double-edged or teasing remarks and took her walks when she was certain that he and Gregor were shut up in the library.

Long trestle tables had been set up where the men were laying out and sorting papers as they retrieved them from all over the house. It seemed strange that the wicked Lord Dreycott could so immerse himself in scholarly pursuits. He ought to spend his time with his horses, his guns, his brandy and his cards, she thought resentfully, then she could categorise him very neatly.

For four days after that encounter in the gazebo life at Dreycott Park fell into a routine so disciplined and predictable that Lina felt sometimes that she had dreamed the demanding pressure of Quinn's lips on hers, the strength of his arms, the heat of his mouth. She was living, it seemed, with a gentleman scholar and his assistant.

In the morning after breakfast, during which a large
amount of post appeared, he and Gregor rode out or walked or exercised. They went into the long barn with rapiers and, according to Jenks, practised swordsmanship exhaustively. They wrestled and fought, attracting an audience of all the male staff, which drove the women of the household to exasperated nagging when none of the heavy work was done.

Then the copper was emptied to fill the marble bath and following luncheon they disappeared into the library. After dinner Quinn went to the study to read through his uncle's work on the memoirs and make notes on how to complete them while Gregor continued to search through cupboards and shelves for paperwork. When they had the papers sorted, Quinn explained, they would begin on the books, creating a brief catalogue as they boxed them up.

 

The fifth day was Sunday. Lina put on her usual costume for attending church since she had arrived at Dreycott Park, the once-white gown that had been dyed to a soft grey, tied with a deep amethyst ribbon under the bosom. With white cuffs and narrow white lace at the neckline it looked sombre yet attractive, she thought, as she pinned up her hair into a complex plaited twist that her aunt had taught her. Simple pearl stud earrings, her gold cross, plain black-kid ankle boots and a bonnet trimmed with more of the amethyst ribbon completed the ensemble.

She picked up her prayer book and went down to breakfast. It was proper to join the men in the small dining room, she decided, instead of taking her tea and toast in the kitchen as usual.

They stood up as she came in. ‘Good morning. It is a lovely day, is it not?' Then she saw that they were both clad
in immaculate and conventional tailcoats, pantaloons and Hessian boots—and that they were both staring at her.

‘Celina, good morning. We are all dressed for church, I see.'

So that was what they were staring at. This was the first time she had worn her Sunday best. ‘You are coming to church, too?' It had never occurred to her that they might; Gregor because she assumed he was not of the Protestant faith, Quinn because she found it hard to visualise him sitting attentively through a sermon with the eyes of the entire parish on him, speculating about his past and present sins.

‘We make a point of attending the religious rites of whatever community we find ourselves in,' Quinn said. ‘Unless, of course, non-believers are unwelcome, which they are in some parts of the world. Religious observance is usually of great significance to a tribe,' he added as though they were discussing diet or clothes.

‘You are not a believer, then?' Lina asked, taken aback at the concept of the parishioners as a tribe to be studied. She did not think she had ever met someone of an atheistical persuasion before.

‘I am a sceptic. Certainly my great-uncle's spirit has not visited to inform me that we were both wrong and I should repent immediately.'

It was a shocking thing to say, but the image he conjured up of old Simon's spectre appearing in the bedchamber with dire warnings about repentance while Quinn sat bolt upright in bed in alarm almost made her laugh out loud. Lina fought to keep a straight face. ‘It is a charming church and Mr Perrin delivers an interesting sermon.' Despite his dry appearance, the vicar had a mild sense of humour and a genuine concern for his flock which she admired.

‘Is there a box pew for the Park?'

‘No. We—I mean
you
—have a pew set aside, but all of them are rather charming medieval benches with carved ends, not enclosed ones.'
And the congregation will have an uninterrupted view of their shocking new lord of the manor
, she thought, wondering if that had prompted his question. He did not appear alarmed at the prospect.

Trimble came in with a newspaper on a salver. ‘A newspaper at last, my lord. Friday's
Morning Chronicle
has only just arrived from London. What has happened to
The Times
I regret I cannot say—some inefficiency at the receiving office, I have no doubt. I will enquire. I trust those two papers will be suitable?'

‘Eminently, thank you, Trimble.'

Lina stared at the folded paper beside Quinn's plate. If it had been
The Times
she would not have worried: sensational crimes several weeks old would not feature there. But the
Chronicle
always ran crime stories, and followed them up whenever a titillating snippet came out; there was a chance that something about the fugitive Celina Shelley would be in there.

Quinn showed no inclination to look at the paper yet and Gregor scarcely glanced at it. ‘I wonder…might I see the paper for a moment? I…there is an advertisement I would like to find if it is in that issue.'