Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) (4 page)

“Are you from London?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Hiding and playing, Sister Faithful, and I don’t intend to ever stop. So I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time by coming to me.” He pointed to the door. “If you’ll excuse me? I’m busy today.”

“Busy?” she sputtered. “As far as I can see you’re drinking and loafing.”

“Yes, I am. It’s what I do every day, but I can’t do it while you’re standing there, and I most especially can’t do it while there is a gaggle of young girls in the house, so…if you’ll excuse me?”

She gaped at him, wondering if she’d ever previously encountered such an indolent, unlikeable rogue.

Though it was idiotically foolish, she’d pinned such hopes on him. She’d imbued him with traits it was ludicrous to have envisioned. She’d pictured him as courteous and charming, useful and pragmatic. She’d assumed he’d be sympathetic and obliging.

He was handsome enough, but the pretty exterior shielded a heart of stone.

“May we…we…stay the night? It’s such a lengthy distance to town. I don’t know if we could make it before the sun sets.”

“I’m really not prepared to entertain guests, Sister Faithful.”

“Please?”

To her horror, tears swarmed into her eyes, and the oaf detected them.

“Are you crying?” At the prospect, he was aghast. “Don’t you dare cry.”

“I can’t help it,” she mumbled.

She was fatigued and furious. Who would treat a stray dog as he was treating her? Who would cast women and children out into the desert?

If she wasn’t so weary, she’d have stepped up to his fancy throne and shook him until his teeth rattled. But she didn’t suppose rage would move him.

Before she could prevent herself, before she could think better of it, she dropped to her knees and flashed her most woeful expression.

“I’m begging you, sir. For one night. The girls are only five, six, and seven. And all of us are so tired. Surely you aren’t so cruel as to evict us when we’re in such a reduced condition.”

He scowled. “Get up, Sister. There’s no need for groveling.”

“Please?” she said again, and it dawned on her that she probably
couldn’t
get up. She was that beaten down.

He studied her where she was prostrate and shamefully pleading. His scowl deepened, and he dithered, sipped his wine, dithered some more.

Finally he grumbled, “Just one night. Just one! Not a second more.”

“Thank you,” she murmured but she didn’t rise. She couldn’t.

“I don’t care how fervently you beseech me tomorrow. I don’t care how poignantly you stare at me with those pretty blue eyes of yours. You’re leaving in the morning.”

“Yes, we’ll go. I swear.”

Strong arms grabbed and lifted her, and she was whisked out of the room. She peeked up to see that the tattooed giant was carrying her off, her toes brushing the tiled floor.

She peered back at the arrogant despot. He was watching her, a bored look on his attractive face. If she’d had any effect on him at all, there was no sign.

“What is your name, sir?” she called to him.

“Didn’t I say?”

“No.”

“Chase Hubbard, formerly of Cairo, Egypt, and London, England.” He toasted her with his goblet. “At your service, Sister Faithful.”

Then she was hurried around a corner, and he vanished from view.

CHAPTER TWO

“There are women here?”

“Yes, two of them.”

“British women? You’re not joking?”

Chase gazed over at his sole companion and steadfast friend, Ralston Robertson, and replied, “No, I’m not joking.”

“Are they pretty?”

“I only saw one of them.”

“And…?”

“I don’t know.”

“Chase—as you constantly remind me—you are the consummate expert on all things female. How could you not
know
if she was pretty?”

“She’s a nun.”

“A nun?”

“Yes. She has blue eyes, but that’s about all I can remember.”

“She wasn’t an old crone, was she? Please tell me she wasn’t.”

“No. She’s probably twenty-five or so. Short. Slender. Shapely. At least I think she was slender and shapely. With all that black fabric covering her, I can’t be sure.”

They were on the verandah at the bathing pool outside Chase’s suite. The pool was tiled and faced the sea. He was shockingly naked and relaxing in the cool water.

He and Ralston had been riding on the beach, and they always washed afterward. Normally Ralston would have jumped in too, but he’d just learned of the arrival of their unexpected guests. He was pacing, his excitement blatant and annoying, and Chase didn’t share it.

The bathing pool was his favorite means of passing the sweltering afternoons. When the temperature reached its peak, he’d strip off his clothes—all of them—and tarry on the rock bench to gaze out at the horizon.

His total nudity was brazen conduct that no polite Englishman would ever consider, but he’d changed so much from the stuffy, conventional fellow who’d left London two years prior that he didn’t like to reflect on how wild and decadent he’d grown.

He’d turned into someone else from whom he’d previously been, and whether he was any better than the old Chase Hubbard was a debatable question. He suspected, down at his core, that he was still a wretch. The basics hadn’t been altered.

Occasionally ships sailed by, but never close enough that he could discern a flag or decide if it might be a captain heading to England. While he sporadically experienced twinges of homesickness, the urge was never sufficient to drive him to rectify his situation. He was content to remain right where he was.

“Where are they?” Ralston asked.

“They?” In the months they’d occupied the villa, they’d never had any visitors, so it took him a moment to comprehend to whom Ralston referred. “Oh,
they
. The nuns. There are some children with them too. Young girls.”

“Girls
and
nuns?”

“Yes.”

Ralston was kind and cheerful and decent in all the ways Chase wasn’t. He chuckled merrily.

Chase frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“We finally cross paths with some females, and it’s nuns and children. Isn’t that just how our luck is running?”

Chase snorted. “Yes, I suppose it is typical.”

“Where are they?” Ralston asked again.

Chase waved toward the house. “I assume the servants are looking after them.”

“The servants! Where are your manners? Have you been wallowing in the desert so long that you’ve forgotten how to act?”

“No, I’m simply hot and sweaty and I wanted a bath. Sister Faithful—”

“Sister Faithful?”

“Yes, it’s quite a name, isn’t it? She claims it’s her true name too. She’s a handful, and I really didn’t care to deal with her.”

“Why is she a handful?”

“She’s brazen and bold, and I can’t abide those traits in a woman. The last hussy I encountered, when I was in Cairo—her name was Pippa Clementi—was so brash that I’m still suffering the consequences of knowing her. I don’t intend to ally myself with a confident female ever again.”

“She’s a nun, and you describe her as brazen and bold?”

“Yes, I hadn’t talked to her above a minute, and she demanded I leave Africa and escort her to England.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I wouldn’t climb onto a ship and sail the ocean again for all the tea in London. Or China either for that matter.”

“So you left them to their own devices?”

“The servants are competent. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“What an oaf you are. I’m glad your mother can’t see how you turned out.”

“Don’t drag my poor mother into it. I’m certain if she’d lived, she’d have had a mellowing influence.”

“I doubt it,” Ralston countered. “I’ve never met anyone more dissolute or corrupt than you.”

“Spoken like the vicar’s son you’ve always been.”

“I won’t apologize for my father being a minister of the Gospel.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

“My father aside, I’m an upstanding person. If my choice is between morality and vice, I choose morality.”

“I have more fun than you.”

“I’ll get into Heaven, and you won’t.”

“Yes, but I won’t mind because I’ll be reveling in Hell, and all the loose, sinful girls will be reveling with me.”

Ralston rolled his eyes, and Chase laughed, humored as he always was by Ralston and his prim views.

Chase was a very elderly thirty-two and Ralston a decade younger. Ralston had been raised in a parsonage, the fifth of eight boys, so he’d never had any prospects, and there’d been no money available for him to wed or improve himself. It was the reason he’d been working as a clerk to the grain merchant, Mr. Fitzwilliam.

His upbringing had been so far removed from Chase’s that, when they chatted about any topic, Chase felt Ralston was another species of human being entirely.

He was like a happy puppy, like an eager little brother, who was constantly optimistic and enthusiastic. He hadn’t been slapped alongside the head over and over as Chase had been slapped. He hadn’t had to learn the hard lessons that Chase had had to learn.

Even being attacked by pirates hadn’t clouded his sunny disposition. He was so bloody hopeful and positive. He was ceaselessly certain that something good was about to transpire, that better times were just around the corner, and Chase could never get him to admit that he existed in a fantasy world.

In Chase’s opinion, the worst that could happen usually did.

His father had been a French count, his mother the man’s favorite mistress. They might have married except that his father had already been married. His wife came from a typical aristocratic family, and they had several children together, but they’d hated each other and lived apart.

When the Terror began in Paris, his father and mother had fled to England. Chase had been five, his sister Amelia a baby.

Not long after that, his parents had had the audacity to die. He and Amelia had been separated and sent to boarding schools. They grew up as orphans and rarely saw each other.

His French relatives had paid for his education, so in that regard he was fortunate. They could have simply tossed him into the streets to starve. But he’d never received a single farthing of support beyond his tuition. He’d never inherited a single item from his father’s vast estates, had never been given a penny to establish himself as an adult in London.

He was a cad and a bounder, and he never pretended he wasn’t. He relentlessly scrimped and scrounged for funds, and he’d discovered every despicable trick in order to smooth his path to fiscal solvency. He gambled extensively—and cheated of course. He deceived and swindled and mooched and defrauded. He was particularly adept at flirting with older matrons, at convincing them to furnish him with money or shelter or any other boon he was seeking.

He wasn’t proud of his conduct, but he’d never tried to behave any better. He had a knack for dishonesty and was a natural confidence artist.

Poor Ralston, dear boy that he was, was aware that Chase had wicked impulses, but he didn’t know the half of it, and Chase wasn’t about to enlighten him. Their sojourn in the Mediterranean, where they’d clung to a floating log for days, had bonded them more closely than any two people could ever be.

Ralston thought Chase was heroic and dashing and very brave, but every person who was truly acquainted with Chase could have explained that he was a rascal and wastrel. It was refreshing to have Ralston view him differently, and he wouldn’t crush the boy’s illusions.

Ralston grabbed a towel and threw it to Chase, but he didn’t catch it.

“What’s that for?” Chase asked. “It’s still hot outside, and I’m not finished.”

“Get dressed so we can properly greet our guests.”

“They’re not guests,” he churlishly complained. “They’re…nuns.”

“Nuns from home who speak English, as well as three children who are probably scared out of their wits. If you won’t welcome them, I certainly will.”

“Wait until you meet them and Sister Faithful lashes you with that sharp tongue of hers. You’ll be sorry.”

“I couldn’t possibly be.” He was practically skipping with joy. “I’ll have the servants prepare a fine supper. We’ll dine with them on the verandah as the sun is setting.”

“I’m aquiver with excitement,” Chase sarcastically retorted.

Ralston hurried off, and Chase remained in the pool a bit longer than he generally would have.

As Ralston had wondered, he too was wondering about his manners. He’d been taught how to act the gentleman, how to treat a lady, how to converse in a civil fashion. But he’d simply been so disturbed by Sister Faithful strutting in. He’d been horrid to her and figured he should apologize.

She’d suffered many catastrophes, and she was in a pickle, alone in Africa without family or resources. Chase knew precisely how that felt. He’d suffered his own adversities in Egypt and had barely survived them.

Initially, when he’d staggered into the villa, he’d been desperate to return to England, but there was actually nothing for him there. His sister was in London, but she was newly married to a man Chase couldn’t abide and busy with her own life. There was no genuine reason he could cite as to why he should go back—except that it was home.

When he and Ralston had been tossed overboard, they’d drifted for days and eventually washed up on the beach below the villa.

It was too far-fetched to be believed, but the magnificent abode had been abandoned, the previous occupants having fled without a word in the middle of the night. No one else ever came to claim the place, and the servants—who’d been nervous and worried—had greeted them like old friends.

There were rumors about the property, of a grisly murder and ghosts walking, so it was supposedly haunted, and the local citizens were more superstitious than rural villagers in Cornwall—if that was possible.

Chase and Ralston had blustered in and stayed, acting as if they had every right, with the servants being perfectly delighted to have someone to tend again.

He and Ralston were immersed in an idyllic, fantastical adventure.

Chase was carrying on like the rich libertine he would have been had his father wed his mother. He had delicious food to eat, fine wine to drink, and loose concubines to satisfy his every wicked desire. He was being showered with all the pampering a fellow could tolerate. He couldn’t predict how long it would last. Probably until a new owner arrived to shoo him out.