Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (74 page)

Jack chuckled. “I'll let you know after the honeymoon. We're off to Rawling's Cottage for a week. Nice and quiet up in Leicestershire just now.”

Harry shook his head, a half-smile on his lips as he took in his brother's bright eyes. “Just don't lose anything vital—like your wits.”

Jack laughed. “I think I'll manage—just.” His slow grin surfaced as his gaze found his wife at the centre of a crowd near the door. He turned to Harry and put out his hand. “Wish me luck?”

Harry met his gaze. He straightened—and took Jack's hand. “You know I do. And your Golden Head as well.”

Jack grinned. “I'll tell her.” Poised to leave, Jack slid Harry a sidelong glance. “Take care yourself.” With a last nod, he headed for his future.

Leaving Harry to wonder just how much of his current predicament showed in his face.

Fifteen minutes later, at the top of the steps outside the Webbs' house, he watched as the carriage carrying Jack and his bride rounded the corner into South Audley Street and disappeared from view. The assembled throng turned with a sigh and shuffled back indoors. Harry hung back, avoiding Em and his father. He re-entered the hall at the rear of the crowd.

The butler had just returned with his gloves and cane when a cool, calm voice enquired, “But surely you'll stay for just a little while, Mr Lester? I feel we've hardly had a chance to become acquainted.”

Harry turned to view Mrs Webb's delicate features—and her silver-blue eyes which, he was quite positive, saw far too much for his comfort. “Thank you, ma'am, but I must away.” He bowed elegantly.

Only to hear her sigh as he straightened.

“I really do hope you make the
right
decision.”

To Harry's intense discomfort, he found himself trapped in her silver-blue stare.

“It's quite easy, you know—no great problem, even though it always feels as if it is. One just has to decide what one wants
most
of life. Take my word for it.” She patted his arm in a motherly fashion, quite at odds with her supremely elegant appearance. “It's quite easy if you put your mind to it.”

For the first time in a very long while, Harry was rendered speechless.

Lucilla Webb smiled up at him, utterly ingenuous, then fluttered a delicate hand. “I must return to my guests. But do try
hard
to get it right, Mr Lester. And good luck.”

With an airy wave, she glided back to the drawing-room.

Harry escaped.

On reaching the pavement, he hesitated. His lodgings? Brook's? Manton's? Frowning, he shook his head and started walking.

Unsummoned, the image of Boadicea returned. Harry's frown faded; his lips twitched, then curved. A fanciful notion. But was he really such a dangerous figure that a woman needs must put on armour to deal with him?

The rake within him was not averse to the analogy; the man wasn't so sure of the compliment. He was sure, however, having had the point proved repeatedly, that Lucinda Babbacombe was not the sort of woman to
recognise
danger, much less actively consider it. She, he imagined, would simply have looked the Roman commanders in the eye and calmly pointed out that they were trespassers. Then waited, arms folded, toe tapping, for them to remove themselves from her land.

Very likely, they would have gone.

Just as he—

Abruptly, Harry shook himself free of his thoughts. Drawing in a breath, he lifted his head—and found he was nearing the end of South Audley Street. Ahead, the leafy precincts of Green Park beckoned.

Without allowing himself to consider, he strode on, then crossed Piccadilly to amble beneath the trees. There were few of the fashionable in sight—it was early yet and most would go to Hyde Park nearby. The gentle lawns about him played host to nursemaids and children, an odd couple or two strolling, like himself, aimlessly down the paths.

He strolled slowly on, letting the peace sink into him, keeping his mind purposely blank.

Until a cricket ball hit him on the side of the knee.

Harry stifled a curse. He stooped and picked up the ball, then hefted it in one palm as he looked about for its owner.

Or owners, as it happened to be.

There were three of them, one slightly older but even he was barely seven. They sidled around a tree and approached with great caution.

“I—I'm most fearfully sorry, sir,” the eldest piped up. “Did it hurt terribly?”

Harry sternly quelled an impulse to laugh. “Horrendously,” he replied, lending the word maximum weight. All three faces fell. “But I dare say I'll survive.” They recovered—and eyed him hopefully, large eyes fringed with long lashes, faces as innocent as the dawn.

As his fingertips found the ball's seam, Harry gave up the struggle and let his lips lift. He squatted, coming down to their height, and held out the ball, spinning it so that it whizzed like a top between his fingers.

“Oh—I say!”

“How d'you do that?”

They gathered about him, polite reticence forgotten. Harry showed them the trick, a facility learned over the long summers of his childhood. They oohed and aahed and practised themselves, eagerly seeking advice.

“James! Adam? Where on earth have you got to? Mark?”

The three looked guiltily about.

“We have to go,” the ringleader said. Then smiled—a smile only a young boy could master. “But thanks so much, sir.”

Harry grinned. He stood and watched them hurry around the tree and over the lawns to where a rotund nurse waited impatiently.

He was still grinning when Mrs Webb's words floated through his head. “One just has to decide what one wants
most
of life.”

What he most wanted—he hadn't thought of it for years. He had once, more than ten years ago. He had been very sure, then, and had pursued his goal with what had been, at that time, his usual confident abandon. Only to find himself—and his dreams—betrayed.

So he had put them away, locked them in the deepest recess of his mind, and never let them out again.

Harry's lips twisted cynically. He turned away and resumed his stroll.

But he couldn't turn his mind from its path.

He knew very well what he most wanted of life—it was the same now as it had been then; despite the years, he hadn't changed inside.

Harry stopped and forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Behind him, he could hear the piping voices of his late companions as together with their nurse they quit the park. About him, youngsters cavorted and played under watchful eyes. Here and there, a gentleman strolled with his wife on his arm, their children ranging about them.

Harry let out the breath trapped in his chest.

Other lives were full—his remained empty.

Perhaps, after all, it was time to re-examine the possibilities. Last time had been a disaster—but was he really such a coward he couldn't face the pain again?

 

H
E ATTENDED THE THEATRE
that night. For himself, he cared little for the dramatics enacted on the stage—and even less for the histrionics played out in the corridors, the little dramas of
ton
nish life. Unfortunately, the lovely Mrs Babbacombe had voiced her wish to experience Edmund Kean; Amberly had been only too happy to oblige.

Concealed in the shadows by the wall of the pit, opposite the box Amberly had hired, Harry watched the little party settle into their seats. The bell had just rung; the whole theatre was abustle as society's blessed took their seats in the tiers of boxes, the girls and ladies ogled by the bucks in the pit, while the less favoured looked on from the galleries above.

Hugging the deep shadows cast by the boxes above him, Harry saw Amberly sit Lucinda with a flourish. She was dressed in blue as usual, tonight's gown of a delicate lavender hue, the neckline picked out with silver thread. Her dark hair was dressed high over her pale face. Settling her skirts, she looked up at Amberly and smiled.

Harry watched, a chill slowly seeping into his soul.

Amberly laughed and spoke, bending closer so she did not have to strain to hear.

Abruptly, Harry swung his gaze to the other members of the party. Satterly was chatting to Em, who had taken the seat beside Lucinda. Heather Babbacombe plumped down in the seat beyond Em; Harry spied Gerald standing behind her, his stance clearly proclaiming how he viewed his fair charge.

Momentarily taken aback, Harry frowned. Gerald's expression was easy for him to read, even at this distance. His brother looked far too intent. He was midway through making a mental note to have a quiet word in his baby brother's ear, when he pulled himself up short. Heather Babbacombe might be young but she was, to his reading, an intensely carefree and honest young girl. Who was he to speak against her?

His gaze drifted back to Lucinda. His lips twisted, more in self-mockery than in humour.

Who was he to argue with love?

What other reason could he give for being here—other than a deep need for reassurance? Even Dawlish had taken to eyeing him with something perilously close to pity. When he had, somewhat irritably, demanded, “What the devil's the matter?” his dour henchman had rubbed his chin, then opined, “It's just that you don't exactly seem to be enjoying yourself—if you know what I mean.”

He had glared and stalked into the library—but he knew very well what Dawlish had meant. The last week had been sheer hell. He had thought that cutting Lucinda Babbacombe out of his life, given she had only just entered it, would be easy enough. He was, after all, a past master at leaving women behind him; avoiding relationships was part of a rake's stock-in-trade.

But putting the lovely Mrs Babbacombe out of his thoughts had proved impossible.

Which left him with only one alternative.

As Mrs Webb had so succinctly put it—what he wanted most.

But did she still want him?

Harry watched as Amberly rattled on, gesticulating elegantly. He was a wit of sorts, and a polished raconteur. The possibility that Lucinda, having rejected his proposal, might have set him aside in her heart, decided he was not worth the trouble and turned instead to someone else for comfort, was not a particularly reassuring thought.

Even less reassuring was the realisation that, if she had, he would get no second chance—had no right to demand another, nor to interfere with his friend's pursuit.

A vice closed around Harry's chest. Amberly gesticulated again and Em laughed. Lucinda looked up at him, a smile on her lips. Harry squinted, desperate to see the expression in her eyes.

But she was too far away; when she turned back to the front of the box, her lids veiled her eyes.

The fanfare sounded, erupting from the musician's pit before the stage. It was greeted with noisy catcalls from the pit and polite applause from the boxes. The house lamps were doused as the stage lamps flared. The performers in the farce made their entrance; all eyes were riveted on the stage.

All except Lucinda's.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Harry saw she was looking down, not at the stage, apparently staring at her hands, possibly playing with her fan. She kept her head up, so no one in the box behind her would suspect her attention was not focused on the play, as was theirs. The flickering light played over her features, calm but hauntingly sad, reserved but eloquently expressive.

Harry drew in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall. Some of the tightness in his chest melted away.

Abruptly, Lucinda lifted her head and looked around—not at the stage but at the audience, uncaring of who might notice her distraction. Harry froze as her gaze scanned the boxes above him, then shifted further along.

Even in the poor light, he could see the hope that lit her face, that invested her whole body with sudden animation.

He watched it slowly fade.

She blinked, then slowly settled back in her chair, her face composed yet inexpressibly sadder than before.

Harry's heart twisted painfully. This time, he didn't try to shut it away, to blot out the emotion. But as he turned and moved silently to the door along the wall, he acknowledged the joy that came in its wake.

He hadn't been wrong about Lucinda Babbacombe. The damned woman was so ridiculously sure of herself she hadn't even considered the danger in loving him.

Stepping out of the darkness of the pit, he smiled.

Two floors above, in the crowded gallery, Earle Joliffe was very far from smiling. In fact, he was scowling—at Lucinda, and the party in Amberly's box.

“Deuce take it! What the devil's going on?” he hissed.

Beside him, Mortimer Babbacombe returned an uncomprehending look.

Disgusted, Joliffe gestured at the box opposite. “What's she
doing
to them? She's turned a whole gaggle of the worst wolves in London into pussycats!”

Mortimer blinked. “Pussycats?”

Joliffe all but snarled. “Lap-dogs, then! She
is
a damned witch—just like Scrugthorpe said.”

“Quiet there!”

“Ssh!” came from all around them.

For a moment, Joliffe contemplated a mill with positive glee. Then sanity intruded; he forced himself to stay in his seat. But his eyes remained fixed on his sacrificial lamb—who had transmogrified into a wolf-tamer.

After a moment, Mortimer leaned closer. “Perhaps they're softening her up—pulling the wool over her eyes. We can afford to give them a little time—it's not as if we're that desperate for the money.”

Joliffe stared at him—then sank his chin in his hands. “Rakes don't behave as they are to your aunt-by-marriage when they're hot on a woman's trail,” he explained through clenched teeth. His jaundiced gaze rested on Amberly and Satterly. “They're being
nice,
for heaven's sake! Can't you see it?”

Frowning, Mortimer looked across the theatre, studying the silent tableau.

Joliffe swallowed a curse. As for not being desperate—they were—very desperate. An unexpected meeting with his creditor last night had demonstrated to him just how desperate they truly were. Joliffe quelled a shiver at the memory of the odd, disembodied voice that had floated out of the carriage, stopping him in his tracks on the mist-shrouded pavement.