Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (43 page)

Sophie sighed. “I know.” She continued to watch Clarissa, then frowned as a particularly petulant expression settled firmly over her cousin's features. “What…?” Sophie followed Clarissa's gaze. “Oh, dear.”

Following Sophie's gaze, Jack beheld a well-set-up young man, unquestionably recently up from the country if his coat was any guide, bearing determinedly down on the group about Sophie's cousin. The young man ignored the attendant swains as if they didn't exist, an action that won Jack's instant respect. Directly and without preamble, the youngster addressed Clarissa; to Jack's disappointment, they were too far away to hear his words. Unfortunately, the young man's grand entrance found no favour in Clarissa's eyes. As Jack watched, Clarissa tossed her silvery curls, an indignant flush replacing the sparkle of moments before.

“Oh, dear. I do hope he didn't call her ‘Clary' again.”

Jack glanced down. Sophie was watching the unfolding drama, small white teeth absent-mindedly chewing her lower lip. “Whatever,” he said. “It appears that his embassy has failed.”

Sophie sent him a worried frown. “They've known each other since childhood.”

“Ah.” Jack glanced back at the tableau being enacted but yards away. A wisp of remembered conversation floated through his mind. “Is that young sprig by any chance Ned Ascombe?”

“Why, yes.” Sophie stared up at him. “The son of one of my uncle's neighbours in Leicestershire.”

Jack answered the question in her eyes. “Your aunt mentioned him.” Glancing again at the young couple, Jack felt an empathetic twinge for the earnest but callow youth who was, quite obviously, under the impression he held pride of place in the beautiful Clarissa Webb's heart. As he watched, Ned gave up what was undeniably a losing fight and, with a galled but defiant expression, retired from the lists. Looking down at Sophie, Jack asked, “I take it he was not expected in London?”

Sophie considered, then said, “Clarissa didn't expect him.”

Jack's brows lifted cynically. “Your aunt gave me to understand that their future was all but settled.”

Sophie sighed. “It probably is. Clarissa does not really care for racketing about and she has never been one to enjoy being the centre of attention for very long. My aunt and uncle believe that, by the end of the Season, she'll be only too happy to return to Leicestershire.”

“And Ned Ascombe?”

“And Ned,” Sophie confirmed.

Considering the colour that still rode Clarissa Webb's cheeks, Jack allowed one brow to rise.

Sophie finished the last of her water. It was time and more to return to the safety of her circle. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Lester, I should return to my friends.”

Jack could have wished it otherwise but he was, once more, under control. Without a blink, he nodded, removing the glass from her fingers and placing it on a nearby table. Then he held out a hand.

Steeling herself against the contact, Sophie put her hand in his. He drew her to her feet, then tucked her hand into his elbow, covering her fingers with his. Hers trembled; with an effort, she stilled them. She glanced up and saw him frown.

Jack studied her face, still pale. “Sophie, my dear—please believe I would never knowingly do anything to cause you pain.”

Sophie's heart turned over. Tears pricked, but she would not let them show. She tried to speak, but her throat had seized up. With a smile she knew went awry, she inclined her head and looked away.

He escorted her to her friends, then, very correctly, took his leave of her.

Jack did not immediately quit the house. Something was wrong, and Sophie wouldn't confide in him. The unpalatable fact ate at him, gnawing at his pride, preying on his protective nature, prompting all manner of acts he was far too experienced to countenance. His restless prowling, disguised beneath an air of fashionable boredom, took him by the alcove where Ned Ascombe stood, keeping a glowering watch over his prospective bride.

His gaze on the dancers, Jack propped one broad shoulder against the other side of the alcove. “It won't work, you know.”

The laconic comment succeeded in diverting Ned's attention. He turned his head, his scowl still in evidence, then abruptly straightened, his face leaching of expression. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”

Jack sent the youngster a reassuring grin. “Boot's on the other foot. It was I who interrupted you.” Briefly scanning Ned's face, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Lester. An acquaintance of the Webbs. I believe I saw you at Lady Asfordby's, as well.”

As he had expected, the mention of two well-known and well-respected Leicestershire names was enough to ease Ned's reticence.

Ned grasped his hand firmly, then blushed. “I suppose you saw…” He abruptly shut his mouth and gestured vaguely, his gaze once more on the dancers. “You were with Sophie.”

Jack smiled, more to himself than Ned. “As you say, I saw. And I can tell you without fear of contradiction that your present strategy is doomed to failure.” He felt rather than saw Ned's curious glance. Straightening, Jack extricated a notecase from an inner pocket and withdrew a card. This he presented to Ned. “If you want to learn how to pull the thing off, how to win the blond head you've set your eye on, then drop by tomorrow. About eleven.” Very used to younger brothers, Jack ensured his worldly expression contained not the slightest hint of patronage.

Taking the card, Ned read the inscription, then raised puzzled eyes to Jack's face. “But why? You've never even met me before.”

Jack's smile turned wry. “Put it down to fellow-feeling. Believe me, you're not the only one who's feeling rejected tonight.”

With a nod, very man-to-man, Jack passed on.

Left by the alcove, Ned stared after him, his gaze abstracted, Jack's card held tight in his fingers.

 

“W
ELL
,
M'DEAR
? Did Jack Lester disappoint you?” Propped against the pillows in the bed he most unfashionably shared with his wife, Horatio Webb slanted a questioning glance at his helpmate, sitting sipping her morning cocoa beside him.

A slight frown descended upon Lucilla's fair brow. “I don't expect to be disappointed in Mr. Lester, dear. I really should have organized that waltz myself. However, matters do seem to be progressing along their customary course.” She considered, then banished her frown to cast a smiling glance at her spouse. “I dare say I've just forgotten how agonizingly painful it is to watch these things unfold.”

Lowering the business papers he had been perusing, Horatio peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “You haven't been meddling, have you?”

The slightest suspicion of a blush tinged Lucilla's cheeks. “Not to say
meddling.
” She dismissed the notion with an airy wave. “But I really couldn't allow Mr. Lester to sweep Sophie into matrimony before the child had even had a taste of success. Not after her last Season was so tragically curtailed.”

“Humph!” Horatio shuffled his papers. “You know how I feel about tampering with other people's lives, dear. Even with the
best
of intentions. Who knows? Sophie might actually
prefer
to have her Season curtailed—if it were Jack Lester doing the curtailing.”

Head on one side, Lucilla considered the idea, then grimaced. After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you're right. When did you say the horses will be here?”

“They're here now. Arrived yesterday.” Horatio had gone back to his papers. “I'll take the troops to view them this morning if you like.”

Lucilla brightened. “Yes, that
would
be a good idea. But we'll have to give some consideration to escorts.” She touched her spouse's hand. “Leave that to me. I'm sure I can find someone suitable.”

Horatio grunted. “Wonder if Lester brought that hunter of his up to town?”

Lucilla grinned but said nothing. Finishing her cocoa, she laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and snuggled down beneath the covers. Smiling, she reached out to pat her husband's hand. “I'm really quite in awe of your far-sightedness, dear. So clever of you to help the Lesters to their fortune. Now there's no impediment at all to concern you, and you may give Jack Lester your blessing with a clear conscience.” An expression of catlike satisfaction on her face, Lucilla settled to doze.

Horatio stared down at her, a faintly astonished expression on his face. He opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a long moment of staring at his wife's exquisite features, Horatio calmly picked up his papers and, settling his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, left his wife to her dreams.

A
T PRECISELY ELEVEN
the next morning, the doorbell of Jack's townhouse in Upper Brook Street jangled a summons. Jack looked up, his brows lifting. “I believe that will be a Mr. Ascombe, Pinkerton. I'll see him here.”

Here was the parlour; Jack sat at the head of the table, Pinkerton, his gentleman's gentleman, had just finished clearing the remains of Jack's breakfast and was lovingly glossing the mahogany surface.

“Very good, sir,” Pinkerton returned in his usual sepulchral tones.

Jack nodded and returned to his perusal of the latest edition of the
Racing Chronicle.
“Oh—and bring a fresh pot of coffee, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” A sober individual who considered it a point of professional etiquette to carry out his duties as inconspicuously as possible, Pinkerton slipped noiselessly from the room. As the sounds of voices penetrated the oak door, Jack folded the
Chronicle
and laid it aside. Easing his chair back from the table, he stretched, trying to relieve the tension that seemed to have sunk into his bones.

The door latch lifted; Pinkerton ushered Ned Ascombe in, then departed in search of more coffee.

“Good morning, sir.” Feeling decidedly awkward, not at all sure why he had come, Ned surveyed his host. Jack Lester was clearly not one of those town beaux who considered any time before noon as dawn. He was dressed in a blue coat which made Ned's own loosely-fitting garment look countrified in the extreme.

Jack rose lazily and extended a hand. “Glad to see you, Ascombe—or may I call you Ned?”

Grasping the proffered hand, Ned blinked. “If you wish.” Then, realizing that sounded rather less than gracious, he forced a smile. “Most people call me Ned.”

Jack returned the smile easily and waved Ned to a chair.

Dragging his eyes from contemplation of his host's superbly fitting buckskin breeches and highly polished Hessians, Ned took the opportunity to hide his corduroy breeches and serviceable boots under the table. What had Clary called him? Provincial? His self-confidence, already shaky, took another lurch downwards.

Jack caught the flicker of defeat in Ned's honest brown eyes. He waited until Pinkerton, who had silently reappeared, set out a second mug and the coffee-pot, then, like a spectre, vanished, before saying, “I understand from Miss Winterton that you would wish Miss Webb to look upon you with, shall we say, a greater degree of appreciation?”

Ned's fingers tightened about the handle of his mug. He blushed but manfully met Jack's gaze. “Sophie's always been a good friend, sir.”

“Quite,” Jack allowed. “But if I'm to call you Ned, I suspect you had better call me Jack, as, although I'm certainly much your senior, I would not wish to be thought old enough to be your father.”

Ned's smile was a little more relaxed. “Jack, then.”

“Good. With such formalities out of the way, I'll admit I couldn't help but notice your contretemps with Miss Webb last night.”

Ned's face darkened. “Well, you saw how it was,” he growled. “She was encouraging an entire company of flatterers and inconsequential rattles.”

There was a pause, then Jack asked, “I do hope you didn't tell her so?”

Ned fortified himself with a long sip of coffee and nodded darkly. “Not in those precise words, of course.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies.” Jack fixed his guest with a severe glance. “It seems to me, my lad, that you're in desperate need of guidance in the matter of how to conduct a campaign in the
ton.
”

“A campaign?”

“The sort of campaign one wages to win a lady's heart.”

Ned glowered. “Clarissa's heart has always been mine.”

“I dare say,” Jack replied. “The trick is to get her to recognize that fact. From what I saw last night, if you continue as you are, you're liable to go backwards rather than forwards.”

Ned frowned at his mug, then glanced up at Jack. “I'm not really cut out to shine in town. I don't know how to do the pretty by the ladies; I'm more at home in the saddle than in a ballroom.”

“Aren't we all?” At Ned's questioning look, Jack elaborated. “The vast majority of gentlemen you'll see at any evening's entertainments would rather be somewhere else.”

“But why attend if they don't wish to?”

“Why were you at Mrs. Webb's little affair?”

“Because I wanted to see Clarissa.”

“Precisely. The only inducement capable of getting most of us across the threshold of a ballroom is the lure of the ladies. Where else do we get a chance to converse, to establish any connection? If you do not meet a lady first at a ball, it's dashed difficult to approach her anywhere else, at least in town. So,” Jack concluded, “if you're set on winning Clarissa Webb, you'll have to accept the fact that you'll be gracing the
ton
's ballrooms for the Season.”

Ned wrinkled his nose. “My father was against my coming up to town—he thought I should just wait for Clarissa to come back. Mr. and Mrs. Webb are very sure she'll not appreciate the racketing about and will want to return to the country.”

“I have inestimable faith in the senior Webb's perspicacity. However, don't you think you're extrapolating just a little too far? Taking Clarissa just a little too much for granted?”

Ned flushed again. “That's what worried me. It's why I came to town.”

“And your instincts were right.” Jack eyed him straitly.

“From what little I've seen, I would predict that, whatever her inclinations, Clarissa Webb is sure to be one of the hits of the Season. That means she'll have all the puppies fawning at her feet, eager to paint unlikely pictures of a glowing future should she bestow her hand on them. And, despite the fact she may remain at heart a country miss, one should not lose sight of the fact that there's no shortage of gentlemen who are also inclined to the country. Such men would not baulk at taking a wife who dislikes town life. Most, in fact, would consider her a find.”

Ned's brow furrowed. After a moment's cogitation, he looked Jack in the eye. “Are you telling me Clarissa will be sought after by other gentlemen who would wish to retire to the country?”

Jack nodded decisively.

“And if I don't make a…a push to fix her interest, she may accept one of them?”

Again came a definite nod.

Ned looked slightly shaken. After a long silence in which he studied the coffee at the bottom of his mug, and during which Jack sat back, at ease, and waited patiently, Ned raised his head, his jaw set, and regarded Jack with determined honesty. “I thank you for your warning, Jack. You've given me a great deal to think about.” Despite his efforts, Ned's features contorted in a grimace which he immediately hid behind his mug. “Dashed if I know what I'm to do about it, though,” he mumbled from behind the mug.

“No need to panic.” Jack waved a languid hand. “I've loads of experience I'm perfectly willing to place at your disposal. I dare say once you learn the ropes, you'll find the whole business a challenge.”

Surprised, Ned looked up from his mug. “Do you mean…” he began, then took the bull by the horns. “Are you suggesting you'd be willing to help me?”

“Not suggesting. I'm
telling
you I'm prepared to stand your mentor in this.”

Ned's open face clouded. “But…why?” He flushed vividly. “I mean…”

Jack laughed. “No, no. A perfectly understandable question.” He viewed his guest with a quietly assessing eye. Then he smiled. “Let's just say that I can't bear to see one so young so tangled in the briars. And, of course, I, too, have an interest in the Webb household.” He made the admission with easy assurance and was rewarded by Ned's instant comprehension.

“Sophie?” His eyes growing round, his gaze openly speculative. Ned considered Jack—and his revelation.

Jack inclined his head.

“Oh.”

As Jack had hoped, Ned seemed to accept that his interest in Sophie was sufficient excuse for his interest in him. While he was certainly drawn to Ned's open earnestness, it was Sophie's transparent concern for her cousin that had prompted him to take Ned under his wing. It formed no part of his own campaign to have Sophie in a constant fidget over her cousin, always keeping one eye on the younger girl. It was natural enough that she do so; to one who was himself imbued with a strong sense of sibling responsibility, Sophie's concern for Clarissa demonstrated a highly laudable devotion. Nevertheless, Sophie's cousinly concern could rapidly become a distraction.

And Jack was quite certain he did not wish to share Sophie's attention—not With Clarissa, nor anyone else.

Ned was frowning, clearly still uncertain.

“Consider my offer in the light of one doing his damnedest to ensure his lady is not distracted by unnecessary ructions amongst her family,” Jack suggested somewhat drily.

Ned glanced up, struggling to hide a grin. “I suppose that's true enough. Sophie's always been like an elder sister to Clarissa.”

Jack inclined his head. “I'm so glad you see my point.”

Ned nodded. “If that's the way it is, I have to admit it wouldn't sit well to walk away from a fight. But I do feel totally at sea.” He grinned at Jack. “Do you think you can turn me into a dandy?”

Jack grinned back. “Not a chance. What I'm sure we
can
do is to turn you out as a gentleman of the
ton.
” Sobering, he fixed Ned with a meaningful glance. “You should never forget, nor attempt to hide, your origins. There is, if you'll only stop to consider, no taint attached to being a husbander of acres. Most of the highest in the
ton
are also the largest landholders in England and I can assure you they're not the least apologetic for the fact. Many spend considerable amounts of time managing their estates. Drawing one's fortune directly from the land is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Ned coloured slightly. “Thank you. I don't know how you knew but that's exactly what I felt.”

“I know because I've been there before you. I, too, have an estate to manage. That, however, has never stopped me from feeling at home in London.”

“Oh.” The revelation that Jack, too, had firm links with the country eased Ned's mind of its last doubt. “So, what do I do first?”

“A tailor,” Jack declared. “Then a barber. You can't do anything until you look the part. And then we'll see about introducing you to some of the necessary establishments a gentleman of the
ton
must needs frequent—like Manton's and Jackson's Boxing Saloon. After that, we shall plan your campaign in more detail.” Jack smiled. “You're going to have to learn that finessing the feminine mind takes the wiles of a fox and the devotion of a hound.”

“I'll do whatever I need to,” Ned averred. “Just as long as I can make Clarissa stop looking at those trumped-up popinjays as she was last night.”

Jack laughed and rose. “Onward, then. No time like the present to make a start.”

 

W
HILE
N
ED WAS
sipping coffee in Upper Brook Street, Horatio Webb was busy introducing his children and his niece to the mounts he had had brought down from the country.

“These should be just the ticket for jaunts in the Park,” he said as he ushered his charges into the stables. “Quite the thing, I hear, to be seen riding in the morning.”

“Golly, yes!” returned Jeremy, eyes aglow. “All the crack.”

Horatio's eyes twinkled. “Now these two, you two should recognize.”

“By Jupiter! They're the ones you bought from Lord Cranbourne, aren't they, sir?” George, together with Jeremy, stared round-eyed at the two glossy-coated chestnut geldings their father had indicated.

Horatio beamed. “I thought they needed a little exercise. Think you can handle them?”

A garbled rush of words assured him that they could.

“We'll cut a dash on these,” Jeremy declared.

With both boys absorbed, Horatio smiled down at Amy, clutching his hand. “Now for you, my miss, I've brought down Pebbles. Old Maude wouldn't have appreciated the traffic, you know.”

Struck dumb at the thought of advancing beyond Old Maude's plodding gait, Amy stared at the placid grey mare who ambled up to look over the stall door. “Look!” she piped, as the mare reached down to nudge hopefully at her pockets. “She knows me!”

That, of course, took care of Amy. Leaving her to get properly acquainted with the mare, Horatio smiled at his two remaining charges. “Now, my dear,” he said, beckoning Clarissa forward. “I fear I couldn't improve on Jenna, so I brought her down for you. I do hope you're not disappointed.”

Clarissa smiled delightedly as she reached up to stroke the velvety nose of her beautiful chestnut mare. “How could I possibly be disappointed with you, my pet,” she crooned softly as the mare nudged her cheek. “I was afraid you would want to spell her for a bit,” she told her father. “I rode her all winter.”

“Old Arthur seemed to think she was moping, missing all her rides. You know how soft-hearted he is.” Horatio patted Jenna's nose, then turned to Sophie.

“And now for you, my dearest Sophie.” Taking her arm, he led her to the next stall, where an elegant roan mare was bobbing her head curiously. “I hope Dulcima here suits you. Not as powerful as the Sheik, of course, but rather more suited to the confines of the Park.”

Sophie was staring at the beautiful horse. “But…she's new, isn't she?”

Horatio waved dismissively. “Found her at Tattersall's. She's well broken and used to being ridden in town. Quite a find.”

“Well, yes. But I would have been quite happy with one of your other horses, uncle. I do hope you didn't buy her just for me?”

“No, no. Nonsense—of course not.” Under Sophie's disbelieving gaze, Horatio looked down and tugged at his waistcoat. “Besides,” he said, looking up, a sudden impish twinkle in his eye. “Dare say Mr. Lester will be riding in the Park on the odd occasion. Never do for him to think I don't take all care of you, m'dear.”