Miss Charity's Case (9 page)

“Charity,” Joyce said softly, “you will need to heed her only until you are wed. Then you can run your household as you wish.”

Putting her arm around her sister again, she smiled. “You make me almost anxious for marriage, but you know I cannot think of that until you are settled.”

“Charity—”

“Papa asked that of me.”

“He should not have!”

“Joyce!”

“Well, he should not have.”

“Girls, are you going to loiter out there all night? Do join us.” Lady Eloise's cane hitting the floor emphasized her command.

Charity stared about her as she stepped on the thick gold rug. Lady Eloise had settled in a green striped chair in front of the fireplace that was carved with a design of raised vines and bows, and Leatrice chose a chair as close to Lady Eloise as possible. Leatrice was making every effort to ensure that she kept Lady Eloise's good favor. Sitting on the beechwood sofa next to her sister, Charity smiled as she leaned her elbow on one of the bolsters by the rolled arms.

Miss Munson was sent to her chambers. A footman brought in the tea tray. Charity listened while the other women discussed moving the last of the household to London for the Season.

“But we shall be staying until after the party at Belmore Park, shall we not?” asked Leatrice with sudden concern.

“How could we decline Lord Glynnford's invitation?” Lady Eloise selected a cake from the tray. “Did you know, Joyce, that the marquess's great-great-grandfather and yours were second cousins? Why, we are nearly family.”

“But conveniently distant enough to be able to marry,” Joyce whispered to Charity.

Again Charity was amazed. She had thought Joyce was thrilled with the marquess's attentions, that his call yesterday before they had left for Graystone Manor had been the reason for her ready laughter. Joyce had been the focus of the call, much to Lady Eloise's delight. Charity had guessed Joyce was much taken with Lord Glynnford, for her sister had not stopped smiling since his look-in. If she had no interest in the marquess, could Joyce have developed a
tendre
for another man? But whom could it be? It seemed that Lord Blackburn might not be the only one hiding something.

Oliver Blackburn took a deep breath. This rain-washed air was unlike the smoky fog over London. Without the salt that flavored the winds at sea, the air seemed tame. Damme, he hated being so far inland.

He set his horse to careering along the road. Usually he was not a neck-or-nothing rider, but riding at top speed might clear his mind of disturbing thoughts.

Coming upon a rise, he reined in to look down upon Graystone Manor. What a ninnyhammer he was proving to be! Only a chance comment had informed him that Miss Charity Stuart was leaving London. He had thought he had the situation well in hand, but her sojourn to grassville was complicating things.

The red-haired woman had afflicted his thoughts with her scintillating smile and crackling wit. As he had surmised at The King's Heart Inn, she was intelligent. At the same time, she possessed an innocence that was charming and might prove to be dangerous now.

His lips tightened as he stared at the country house. Rumors—as dark and wicked as any spoken about him—were spreading out like waves from the wake of a ship. He had heard whispers Reverend Clarence Stuart's death might not be the tragic accident it appeared. Such rumblings could prove perilous to Miss Charity Stuart and her sister.

None of this should be happening. He should have been able to complete his work. Instead, a vital piece of information had vanished. He toyed with the reins as he considered how Charity would react if he approached her with the truth. If he spoke of a missing
communiqué
and his need to find it, her questions might bring disastrous attention. He could not give her answers, for he was sworn to suppress the truth.

Mayhap if he had known of Stuart's death when he chanced upon the minister's daughters in the inn, things might be different. He had not heard of that horror until long after he had left The King's Heart Inn.

Field's appearance there had been no coincidence. The insufferable bangster had made no effort to hide his interest in the Stuart sisters that night. Although Field's comments had been only of their loveliness, Oliver needed to discover if Field had known of Stuart's demise even as he dined with Oliver.

His first mate, Howell, had brought Oliver the bad news. Along the docks, it was whispered Field was making inquiries about Charity and her sister. Why? There could be but one reason. Field had learned they were the daughters of the Reverend Mr. Stuart. It would not take long for the bastard who had been born on Newgate's step to make the next obvious connection.

Damme, this was growing worse by the moment.

A smile twisted his lips as he rested his gloved hands on the saddle. The worst was he was sitting here like a lad with a sad affliction of calf love.

“What a rapper!” Oliver said aloud. “I must have taken a maggot in my head. What place is there in my life for a pretty miss?”

There was no answer. Not that he needed one. He knew himself well, both for what he was and what he was thought to be. If he had wished to marry—and he had had ample opportunity to do so—he would have by this time. His life was quite comfortable as it was and provided him with what diversions he wished.

“Then why you are riding toward the Manor?”

This time, he received an answer to his question. A gig appeared over the crest of the hill. Oliver's eyes widened.
Here
was the quarry he wished to hunt today. Maybe things were about to take a turn for the better.

He hoped so.

Charity slapped the reins on the horse. Where could Joyce have gone today? No one had seen her about the house, and the gardens were wet from last night's rain. Charity had not dared to ask many questions. If Lady Eloise discovered Joyce had disappeared again, the old woman would fly off the hooks.

For the past week, Charity had been caught up in closing the Manor. Lady Eloise insisted Charity and Joyce take part in every facet of the arrangements, but allowed them no authority. When she saw her sister chafing under the restrictions, Charity had kept a close eye on Joyce.

Still Joyce had slipped away. This time, when Charity found her sister, she was going to give her another tongue-lashing.

Joyce must not be so intractable she lost Lady Eloise's favor. They had no other home.

A shout made her draw back on the reins. Horror swallowed her when she recognized the man who sat so straight on the black horse galloping toward her. She could not fail to identify those broad shoulders beneath the well-tailored riding coat. The boots that clung to his legs outlined the strength he had gained while sailing. His tall hat could not hide his well tanned face.

What was Lord Blackburn doing here?

She could not let him discover why she was out alone on the winding road. If Lord Blackburn learned of Joyce's hey-go-mad behavior, her sister's reputation might become as damaged as his.

With a tip of his beaver, Lord Blackburn smiled. “I see you share my belief that a recent rain offers the perfect venue for an outing, Miss Stuart.”

“I did not think to see you so far from Town, my lord, “she said, as she rested the reins in her lap. She hoped her trembling hands were hidden in the folds of her primrose walking dress. Her tall, wide-brimmed bonnet was held in place by a checkered scarf. It offered no protection from the earl's keen eyes.

“I had an invitation to join Glynnford at Belmore Park,” Lord Blackburn replied. “May I assume I shall see you at the dance he is hosting this evening?”

“Lady Eloise enjoys a long friendship with the marquess.”

He laughed. “Ah, I recall the marquess speaking of how your revered great-aunt sponsored his mother when she was fired off. He holds Lady Anthony in the greatest respect.” He chuckled again. “Mayhap I should say ‘greatest fear'.”

“She is worthy of great respect.”

“Unlike her grandniece who rides alone?”

Charity flushed. She tried to halt the heat that oozed along her cheeks to clash with her curls. “Excuse me, my lord. Lady Eloise will become distraught if I am late.”

“Miss Stuart,” he said, as he maneuvered in front of her horse, “forgive my words that you have mistaken as an insult to you. I did not mean to put you to the blush. I own a certain curiosity about your untoward behavior.”

“As I own a certain curiosity about
your
untoward behavior, my lord.”

“What the deuce!” He laughed. “I must remember to be on my toes with you, Miss Stuart. It is clear you consider polite conversation a dreadful bore.”

“Are you this uncivil with every woman? I suspect you have spoken much more sweetly to those you have had connected with your name.”

Again he laughed. “So tell me, if you will enlighten me, exactly what you have heard.”

Charity hesitated. She should not be conversing with this man—for she risked both her reputation and Joyce's—but she said, “I have heard many, very intriguing tidbits. Much of it I disregard as jobbernowl, but a bit of the poker-talk always proves to be true.” She smiled. “The trick is to discover which is which.”

He crossed his arms over his dark coat. “You flatter me, Miss Stuart, with your attention. No doubt you have heard I possess a scabby reputation.”

“You seem to have spent a great deal of time acquiring that reputation.”

“And you wish to know if it is the truth or simply farradiddle.”

Charity shook her head, suddenly disturbed. She did not wish to hear Lord Blackburn list his
affaires
. “That is not necessary.”

“I believe it is. I regret to own, Miss Stuart, that my reputation is as wicked as you have heard.” His eyes twinkled as he swung down from his horse. Looping the reins around the fancywork on the dash of the gig, he put his foot on the step and leaned toward her. He ran his fingers along the reins she held. “But you must understand I am a rake-shame whose reputation has ruined only himself.”

She wanted to pull her gaze from his, for she yearned to draw his hand to her so he would caress her as gently as he touched the reins. Taking a deep breath to steady her voice, she asked, “Is that so, my lord? My father would say you should have learned from your escapades.”

“I might have if I had reveled in those escapades, as you call them so charmingly.” He gave her a leer worthy of a stage villain. “Did the bagpipe who filled your head with this moonshine name a single woman who was swept from society by my evil attentions? Which one have I driven to despair?” Edging closer, he folded her hand between his. “Did you hear of my scandalous dalliance with Lady Willoughby? Or perhaps you listened to the dreadful story of my unchaperoned ride along the Thames with Mrs. Hawkeswood? Or could it be you were amused with the retelling of my delightful interlude at the theater with Lady Browne-Frazer? I put it to you, Miss Stuart. How could it be that I ruined each of these women—and more—and yet they have married well?”

“I know not, my lord.”

“Did you consider I might have a reason for being altogether pleased with my reputation as a rakehell?”

“Yes, you seem to glory in it.”

“So correct you are, Miss Stuart.” He raised her hand, his breath warming her skin as he whispered, “Think—if you will—of the sad plight of a man who longs only to enjoy his bachelor years. If he has the poor fortune to be full of juice and titled as well, a bevy of matchmaking mamas and eager chits are determined to obtain both.” He pressed his mouth to her hand. When she gasped, he looked up at her, smiling. “My sorry reputation allows me to avoid such entanglements. No decent sponsor would wish her charge to become involved with black-hearted Lord Blackburn.”

As she had guessed from the beginning, he was a rogue who enjoyed roasting the Smarts. He would present a danger to any heart which might believe his skimble-skamble, but he was not wicked. In fact, he was quite the opposite.

Suddenly she pulled her hand out of his. She was a goosecap. She needed to put as much distance as possible between her and this too captivating lord.

“Miss Stuart?”

She did not look at him. “My lord, I must go.”

“Why?” He caught her hand again.

Yanking it away, she said, “My lord, I told you—”

“Miss Stuart—” His voice deepened into a husky warmth. “Charity …”

When she looked at him, entranced by the sound of her name in his rich voice, he framed her face with his broad hands. “Charity, you should not be out here all alone like this. Even in grassville, knights of the pad prey on lovely ladies like you.”

She stared into his fathomless eyes. “I have nothing they would want, for I carry not as much as a shilling with me.”

“Nothing they want?” His laugh was low and tingled through her like summer lightning. “Did no one ever warn you of the dangers a young woman might face if she were discovered alone in such a delightfully deserted place?”

“But I am not alone.”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, for his lips tilted in that roguish smile which threatened to strip away all her resistance to what it promised. His fingers stroked her cheek as he tilted her face closer to his and whispered, “That is true, but think, if you dare, of what your fate could be if I were as wicked as I am reputed to be.”

“Lord Blackburn—”

“No, Charity, say nothing. Listen and learn what you need to know.” His eyes narrowed as his smile became malevolent. “I am a man with but one thought on his mind. I have chanced upon a beautiful, enticing woman far from her
duenna
, and this may be my sole chance to separate this charming lass from her fine reputation. Now I have stopped her carriage.”

“This is absurd.” She pulled away from him and reached for the reins.

With a laugh, he caught her hand and twisted her back to face him. Her breath entangled in her chest, unable to free itself, for his eyes were bright with mischief. “My dear Charity, you are not going to escape your overly ardent admirer so easily.” He stepped into the gig and sat beside her. “Now that he has found you alone, he will come closer to you, so very close.”