The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress (3 page)

She held out her arms for the basket.

Egui, it seemed, was destined to play chaperone on her quest for a romantic encounter. Marvelous. She might not meet with success, but the adventure could hardly fail to be a memorable one.

Despite the icy wind and blinding snow, perspiration clung to Captain Xavier Grey’s brow as he crashed an axe onto one of the few retrievable tree trunks still visible in the white blanket behind his small cottage.

When he’d sent his handful of servants up to Chelmsford a fortnight ago to prepare his domicile, the climate had been cold, but clear. When he’d sent his staff on holiday for the remainder of that fortnight while he visited friends in London, Xavier had actually looked forward to returning to his cottage a day or two before his servants. The solitude would do him good.

The storm, less so.

Provisions would last a week, two at the most. Perhaps that was plenty. Perhaps it was not. Keeping warm would be critical. He swung the axe one last time and then began hauling the logs indoors.

No one had predicted a snowstorm. He supposed that was the very nature of… well,
nature
. Unpredictability. What had begun as a lovely snowfall now threatened to entomb them all in their homes. He added the last of the logs to the reserve pile.

A chill rippled across his skin as he barred the front door against the bone-cold wind. ’Twas ironic. He had hoped never to be trapped anywhere again, and now here he was, doing it to himself. The fact that it was voluntary this time—all openings were sealed to keep out the snow, not to keep in the man—ought to have eased his rising panic.

It didn’t.

He began to stalk the corridors of his old, familiar cottage. The kitchen was clean and cold. The dining room: dark. The library: silent. The servants’ quarters: vacant. The master bedroom: lonesome. The entire cottage was devoid of company or stimulation. Just a restless ex-captain, alone with his thoughts… and his memories.

Xavier wasn’t fond of either companion.

He might have left the battlefield, but his mind was still at war. He could never erase the horrors he’d seen. Nor the role he’d played.

His skin crawled. He had learned things about himself that he would do anything to forget. He’d set off in search of honor, of heroism. Instead, he’d found evil. All around, and inside himself.

And he’d been
rewarded
for it.

It was bitter irony that he’d returned home without a scratch on him when more honorable men—
better
men—had returned in pieces, or not at all. His childhood friend Bartholomew Blackpool was in want of a leg... and the man’s twin brother had died defending their country.

Xavier would never tell Bart how fortunate Edmund was that a bullet had pierced him before the French soldiers found him.

There were far worse fates than death. Xavier would know.

He shrugged out of his coat and shirtsleeves and washed up at a basin filled with water.

It was no use. He would never feel clean. Nor should he.

He sighed. It was just as well that he was stuck out here without any servants. He didn’t deserve company, and he certainly didn’t deserve being waited on. He hoped his staff was wise enough to wait out the inclement weather rather than attempt to reach the cottage during a snowstorm. The roads would quickly become a death trap.

He pulled on a fresh shirt and shoved his arms into his thickest coat. Dressing warmly would allow him to better ration the firewood.

The parlor was the only chamber with a small blaze in its hearth. He stirred the embers with a poker. Night would fall in a few hours, and he didn’t want the fire to die in the meantime.

A knock sounded upon his front door.

Frowning, Xavier replaced the poker and strode to the entryway. Aside from Lord Carlisle and a few local Chelmsford residents, nobody knew Xavier had resumed residence in his little cottage. Who on Earth would be knocking at his door? Better yet, why? He swung open the door.

He nearly choked in surprise. “
Miss Downing?
What the devil are you doing here? Has something happened?”

Her eyes rounded. “You remember me?”

“I’m not
senile
. We were introduced years ago, and we sat beside each other last night.” He scanned her for possible injuries. “Are you all right? Was there a carriage accident?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I… was in the neighborhood. Not far at all. So I thought I’d pay a visit.”

“On
foot?”
He shook his head to clear it of disbelief.

The daft woman stood upon his stoop with a battered trunk and a shrieking picnic basket. From the snaking rectangular trail in her wake, she’d lugged her trunk behind her from somewhere down the road. By herself. In a snowstorm. With a hissing basket.

He snatched the possessed basket from her hand and hauled her inside the house. It was frightful outside. He swung the trunk inside the entryway and slammed the door tight against the cold and wind. Already snowflakes covered the floor. The warmth of the fire was just a memory.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced himself not to shake some sense into her. “You cannot possibly have believed this to be appropriate conditions for a stroll down country roads. Are you
mad?
”

“Just... a bit chilled, I think...” she said through chattering teeth.

He dragged her into the parlor and placed her in the chair closest to the fire. “I’m going to start a pot of tea, and once you’ve drunk every drop of it, I expect a full accounting of what brings you to my doorstep with a trunk and a—”

The basket shrieked and hurled itself against the closest wall.

“—and a
cat
.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do. Not. Move.”

Her huge brown eyes blinked up at him. “Why are
you
starting the tea? Haven’t you a cook or a butler or—”

“I’m afraid uninvited guests don’t always have the luxury of arriving when the staff isn’t away on holiday.”

Her expression brightened, but she made no further move to stop him from fetching tea. Confounding woman. He stalked to the kitchen.

Hellfire. Three years at war had taught him more than he ever wished to know about being self-sufficient. But the last thing he was equipped to handle was a bluestocking spinster with long chestnut curls, sparkling brown eyes, and a rabid cat. A creature that, from the sound of it, had finally managed to escape its basket and streak down the hall toward Xavier’s library.

Bluestocking
, he reminded himself. Of course her ball of fur felt more at home in a library. Besides, the cat was not the problem. His problem was the innocent, unmarried, unaccompanied maiden seated in the parlor of an infamous, immoral, cynical ex-soldier.

Wonderful. He had sworn to never again cause harm to another human, yet he’d destroyed Miss Downing’s reputation merely by allowing her through his door.

Then again, perhaps the situation was not so dire. There were no witnesses to her utter lack of judgment. If he could pack her off to—wherever she’d come from—before his servants arrived, they might both be able to pretend this misadventure had never happened.

In fact, that was likely the reason her eyes had lit up when she’d learned there were no servants. The poor thing was finally concerned about the state of her reputation.

A shrill whistle filled the air as the water reached a boil. He turned to pick up the small towel he used for handling hot objects and stilled.

The towel was now ribbons. And flecked with short gray hairs.

He frowned. He could’ve sworn the cat had taken off for the library. He’d heard its claws clicking across the wooden floor. Was he to believe that had been a
feint?
That the cat had purposefully made excess noise to throw him off the trail, and then returned on silent paws while Xavier’s back was turned in order to shred a perfectly good tea towel? Ridiculous.

Yet the yellow square of cloth was now rubbish.

“I believe the water’s boiling,” Miss Downing called from the parlor. “The whistle means—”

“I know what the whistle means.” He glanced around. Where the devil were the rest of the towels? He yanked off his ascot and used it to lift the shrieking kettle from the stove. He placed it on a tray with milk, honey, and two tea settings, and carried it into the parlor.

She blinked at him in confusion. “Did you lose your cravat in the kitchen?”

He set down the tray on the tea table between the two chairs. “You know who gets to ask questions?
I
get to ask questions. Drink your tea.”

“I just—”

“Drink.” Fingers trembling, he poured each of them a serving of tea. He didn’t
wish
to ask questions. But here she was. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his cup to his lips as he considered his next steps.

Her nose wrinkled. “You drink yours without milk or honey?”

He slanted her a dark look.

“Right.” She lowered her lashes and reached for the milk. “You ask the questions.”

Not anymore. Old dread crept over his skin. He wasn’t certain he could question anyone ever again. He was done with interrogations, with extracting answers from unwilling captives.

While Miss Downing had descended upon him of her own free will, the snow and moonless night would keep them both prisoner until dawn. He would not treat her like one.

“So,” he said instead. “You have a cat. Does it have a name?”

“Egui,” she mumbled against her teacup.

Egui? He frowned. Odd name for a cat, but who was he to judge? He wasn’t stable enough for a pet.

“Does Egui always enjoy ripping cloth to shreds?”

She lowered her teacup in horror. “He ate your
cravat?
”

“No, of course n—” Or had he? Xavier gritted his teeth. He’d placed his wadded-up cravat on the counter next to the shredded towel when he’d brought the tea tray into the parlor. What were the odds it was still where he’d left it? “One moment.”

He rose on stiff legs and marched into the kitchen. His jaw clenched when he caught sight of his cravat. Wonderful.

Egui, two points. Xavier, none. His cravat now resembled a linen octopus. With a discarded hairball instead of eyes.

He returned to the parlor and dropped heavily back into his chair. “Yes. Egui ate my cravat.”

She winced. “He eats... everything. He’s a very peckish cat. His other favorite pastime is hide-and-seek. I recommend locking your bedchamber if you intend to sleep.”

“Delightful,” he murmured. “And to think they claim
dogs
are a man’s best friend.”

She took a dainty sip of tea. “He’s more like... family. I’m afraid I’m stuck with him.”

And now Xavier was too, because his unplanned houseguest thought of the beast as family. Ravenous, demented family.

This couldn’t continue for long. He needed a plan.

He also had a thousand questions, but no wish to interrogate her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to. A young lady like Miss Downing was unlikely to have ulterior motives. Although he was hard-pressed to come up with a rational explanation for her presence, and under such unlikely circumstances.

“I couldn’t help but notice you brought luggage,” he said presently. “But no chaperone. Or carriage.”

She flashed a nervous smile over the rim of her teacup. “It’s the funniest thing. You’re right that I have no chaperone, but I did rent a hack. The driver refused to take the horses any further than the Dog & Whistle due to the ice and snow. For the same reason, the innkeeper was completely without rooms to let. My driver accepted a pallet in the mews, which of course wouldn’t do for a young lady. So I walked here. But don’t worry. It was less than a quarter mile.”

Something was funny, all right. Xavier tapped his fingers together. “I’m so glad there’s a reasonable, not-remotely-questionable explanation for dragging a cat and a trunk through a snowstorm to a bachelor’s private cottage. Your brother will love to hear this.”

She jumped. “You know Isaac?”

He stared at her. “Why do you think me incapable of remembering people?”

She cleared her throat. “I would prefer you didn’t mention this visit to him, that’s all.”

“I would prefer not mentioning it to anyone. Come morning, the snow will melt enough to return you to the Dog & Whistle and commission a driver willing to take you right back home to London.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I can stay the night? Here?”

He held up his palms. “Did you expect me to offer the mews?”

She beamed at him. “I knew you wouldn’t. You’re too steadfast and honorable.”

“I’m too
what?
I’m nothing of the sort!”

“Of course you are. You’re a soldier and a hero. Anyone would be safe in your company.”

“You’ve no idea what being a good soldier means. I’m a bringer of death and destruction. And the worst person of my acquaintance. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

She shook her head. “That was during the war, whilst defending innocent civilians from Napoleon’s tyranny. The very definition of heroic.”

He raked a hand through his hair. If only he
were
the kind of man she painted him to be. “The point is, you shouldn’t be here. You’re a well-bred young lady with a fine reputation, and if we are quite lucky, you might be able to keep it that way.”

She held his gaze. “Part of that is true.”

He almost laughed. Miss Downing was the very embodiment of innocence and purity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Are you claiming you’re
not
a chaste young lady in possession of a pristine reputation?”

“Of course I am. But I don’t wish to be.” She set down her teacup and bit her lip. “Might I be your mistress?”