The Rebel Heir (9 page)

He'd been listening to the poetry? All she could think of was his touch and how her hand had rested on his leg. And all the while, he'd been unaffected and listening to the words being spoken?

How did he do that? He was the one here uninvited, having insinuated himself into her family's plans. He was the one who'd distracted her during the readings and provoked her at every turn, yet she was the one with flaming-hot cheeks. Flustered beyond reason, she stared at him for a second before attempting to speak.

“I found the language used to be quite pleasant, my lord,” she finally replied, having no idea what she was speaking of.

“All that talk of treachery and other lands… We're English. We have enough to deal with inside the borders of our own country,” her father grumbled.

“I found it to be a bit dreary,” Crosby stated with his eyes on her father. “We require no guide as we make our own paths—paths that can lead us to great wealth if we seize opportunity. However I'm a forward-thinking gentleman, not a poet.”

Was he referring to some business dealings with her father now and not poetry? Evangeline looked back and forth between the two men, her mind teetering to keep its balance after the events of the evening.

“You sat in the corner of the room?” her mother hissed as she reached them. “Why even attend?”

Evangeline opened her mouth to explain, but her mother was already picking apart her other flaws. She deserved the dressing-down, although her mother couldn't possibly know her true crime tonight.

“Lord Winfield wouldn't have even seen you back here—hidden away in the corner of the room like the lesser gentry.” She darted her eyes to Lord Crosby as she spoke. “This will not do. It will not do at all. And what have you done to stretch your glove so terribly?” she asked, her gaze turning back to Evangeline.

“Eyes do become misty during such moving poetry,” Lord Crosby chimed in.

There was no need for him to intervene on her behalf. In fact, he should leave. He was experienced in doing just that. Why wasn't he leaving? Having him at her side only made Evangeline's mind turn to soup. She blinked at her mother, unsure what to say while Lord Crosby's gaze was upon her.

“And you used your glove to dry your eyes?” her mother asked her, outrage making her voice go up two octaves. “Haven't you a handkerchief?”

“I did not become misty-eyed over the reading,” Evangeline began in a quiet voice, knowing her mother's opinions on tears shed over any subject.

“She's correct. It was me. William Blake always makes me weep,” Crosby explained to her family. “Lord Rightworth, thank you for allowing me to join your party this evening. It was most enjoyable. Lady Evangeline, I would like to call on you tomorrow.”

“I believe we're otherwise engaged—” her mother said.

“Nonsense,” her father cut in. “Never too busy for a fellow like Crosby. I'm pleased to see my daughter finally showing an interest in a gentleman.”

“Father…” Evangeline warned in a low murmur, but she said nothing further.

“Very well. Tomorrow then,” Lord Crosby promised, but his eyes were not on her, but her father. “And, Lord Rightworth, when I come to call this time, perhaps I'll remember those diagrams I mentioned.” Lord Crosby nodded and took his leave.

Evangeline was still staring after him when she heard her father say, “I look forward to it.”

Her father guided her mother toward the door as the woman predictably nodded an elegant farewell to everyone she passed. Lord Crosby was gone. And Evangeline was left unbalanced and wondering about him once more. Diagrams? What did he mean by diagrams?

She certainly wouldn't be getting any answers tonight. Tomorrow, however, was another day entirely. She trailed after her father, her mind still fuzzy.

“We'll have her married within the month,” her father murmured with clear glee.

“To whom? Please, do not look so pleased with yourself. Our daughter can do a far sight better than the likes of Crosby.”

“He's coming to call on her tomorrow,” her father said as if that explained everything.

It explained nothing to Evangeline. Gentlemen who were keen on leaving town, had stolen on two occasions, and regularly used a false name didn't call on ladies, did they? And if he had meant his request to call on her—why?

It must be part of his scheme, whatever that might be. Evangeline couldn't restrain the smile that tugged at her lips. If he wished to court her for some gain on his part, she would make him pay for it. Perhaps he had turned tonight back upon her head with his scorching caress, but with a tea service between them, she would be quite safe.

He wanted to call on her? Ha! Let him. He was about to become quite well versed in what it meant to court a lady.

He would surely flee London within the day after such a dull affair, and then she could return to finding the proper husband she required without Lord Crosby about. She rubbed her thumb over the spot where he'd pressed his lips to her bare skin. She couldn't rub away the memory of his kiss, but she could eliminate the temptation for more. Evangeline needed a husband and Lord Crosby—or whatever his true name may be—was not the gentleman for the job.

Ian Culpepper, Lord Braxton, was an easygoing man. He regularly looked the other way when his sisters ran around Bath like the hoydens that they were. He always ignored the fact that his butler borrowed from the house's supply of whiskey without thought of returning a single drop. He even occasionally slipped his younger cousins sweets when his aunt wasn't looking. But he had not been able to stand by and allow his grandmother to be swindled by some charlatan passing through town.

He'd seen the trouble the moment he came upon the man with his grandmother. That false twinkle in the swindler's eye had drawn Ian's attention like a piece of broken bottle left behind in the grass and catching the light. He'd watched the man spin a tale with concerning ease. It was his grandmother's girlish laugh, however, that had urged Ian into action.

He'd done what any gentleman would do: He'd tossed the charlatan from his home in the middle of tea. Perhaps most gentlemen of good breeding would have waited for their tea to be finished, but Ian wasn't one to sit about and wait—ever. He hadn't even stopped at removing the man from his home. He'd chased him halfway to London before losing the trail, and then he had gone in search of more information.

Now, he ran a hand over his weary eyes. Somehow he would find a way to keep his long-ago vow to his father. Ian would care for this family, and that included his rather fanciful grandmother and—in this instance—her investments.

“False name. False estate. False business. Is there anything true about this man?” Ian pressed his fist into the desktop as he stared down at the map that sat atop a pile of clippings from the local posts of surrounding towns.

Rockwale, his perpetually inebriated butler, moved to straighten the pieces of paper strewn across Ian's desk, stacking the scraps of newsprint until the charlatan's face looked up at Ian from a small likeness sketched in black ink on top of the pile. “The truth is in the pudding, as my mother always said.”

“Rockwale…I believe that's the
proof
,” Ian corrected as he straightened from his desk, muttering to himself. “The
proof
is in the pudding.”

The man stepped away with a nod of agreement. “She wasn't much with words, my lord, but she did enjoy a good pudding.”

“Perhaps your mother was correct,” Ian mused as he turned to look out the window onto the street below. It was a quiet afternoon, but then, most were in Bath.

“I fail to see how a pudding will solve the situation, but I'll ring for the cook.”

“No.” Ian spun on his heel and began pacing the floor in front of the windows as he often did when he was on the edge of a decision about his family. Over the two years since he'd inherited responsibility for his family's welfare, he'd worn the finish on the hardwood floor dull in the space behind his desk. “We require truth and proof.” He turned and set off in the opposite direction. “I don't simply want to have Grandmother's funds returned—I want to see that this man doesn't harm another man's grandmother. Portable steam.” Ian shook his head at his grandmother's naiveté. “He must be held accountable for his actions. I will see to it that he's punished for his thievery.”

Rockwale cleared his throat, shifting to the side to gain Ian's attention. “Pardon my opinions on the matter, my lord, but don't you have enough to deal with here in Bath? Your sisters—”

“Will be fine for a bit under my grandmother's supervision,” Ian cut in, already making preparations for a trip in his mind. Rockwale could argue all he liked, but Ian's mind was settled on the subject. He would return to the point where he'd lost the swindler's trail and track him from there. From Berkshire it would be north to Oxford, south to Hampshire…or straight ahead to London. If he'd continued straight… Ian turned and paced the other direction. The damage the man could do to the good members of society in London was staggering. Ian had to leave. He had to try.

“Your grandmother can't keep pace with your sisters. You can barely manage them, and you have youth on your side.”

“You flatter me, Rockwale.” He flashed a smile at his butler as he moved across the room toward the door. “I've failed in every effort to manage my sisters.”

“You'll need assistance,” his butler persuaded. “At least gather a few other local gentlemen. Your family wasn't the only one who encountered that man. Surely others were taken in by his schemes.”

Ian stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You're correct. His foolishness was the talk of the town during his stay. I'll have to move quickly to gather assistance before he gets too far away.”

“I've never known you to sit idle, my lord. Indeed, it was surprising you didn't catch the rascal on the road out of town last week.”

“He shan't be so lucky this time,” Ian said, opening the door. “Have my horse readied.”

Ian Culpepper, Lord Braxton, was guilty of plenty of lesser crimes in this world, but he would not be guilty of standing by while his grandmother was swindled. He would travel as far as he must to find the man responsible for stealing from his family. And at the end of his journey, he would ensnare the scoundrel in his own web of lies.

“Lie about my intention to call? Would I lie to you?” Ash lowered his voice to ask, aware of the maid sitting in the corner with a lap full of embroidery while she pretended not to listen to their conversation.

He'd found Evangeline in a small parlor off the main hall when he arrived this afternoon. A tiny room intended to receive guests was an odd place to spend the day, almost as if she were hiding in her own home.

When Ash first set foot inside the parlor, Evangeline had exchanged a meaningful glance with the young maid who remained in the corner. After an encouraging nod from the maid, Evangeline had turned back to him with eyes as bright as those of a child being allowed unexpected sweets. Ash had taken that to mean the maid was the loyal sort. He certainly hoped that was true, since they were now discussing whether he'd lied about his intentions.

“Yes, I'm quite certain you would lie to me,” Evangeline stated. “In fact I'm quite certain you already have and continue to do so. Tea?” Her eyes were lit by some inner merriment as she indicated a serving tray that sat on the table in front of her.

She was a vision in green today. Everything about her was in place, down to the last hair on her head, and he had the overwhelming desire to ruffle her well-preened feathers. Who lounged about their home with such an exacting appearance? Or had she dressed with him in mind today? He'd changed waistcoats twice and retied his cravat at least five times before leaving headquarters. He'd told himself it was to appear appropriate when he saw her father, but as Evangeline suggested, he was a liar.

He glanced back at the door to the hall. Business could wait. Instead he leaned an elbow on the back of the chair opposite where Evangeline sat beneath a row of windows overlooking the garden. The maid in the corner now had her nose so close to her embroidery that she was in danger of poking the end of it with a needle. She only broke her trance for quick looks at the door. All seemed private then.

“Tea,” he repeated, leveling a glare in Evangeline's direction. “You wish to have tea with someone who lies to you?”

“Everything is more civilized over tea.” She blinked, clearly believing her own words.

“And you believe some water and leaves will make me more civilized as well,” he supplied, watching her.

He hated burdening her with unwelcome news, but he'd been quite uncivilized on occasion. In fact, his thoughts about the way she looked this afternoon and what he longed to do to her overly tidy hair and perfectly pressed dress were downright barbaric.

“One can only hope for a bit of civility. Do sit, Lord Crosby. You led my father to believe we have a mutual interest, though I'm certain your intent was to discuss some piece of business with him today and not to join me for tea. Curious, don't you agree?”

She was damn distracting. The only thing he found curious was that he was supposed to be distracting her, not the other way around. “Very well,” he muttered as he circled the grouping of chairs and dropped into the one beside Evangeline's.

She smiled as she poured a cup of tea and handed it to him. Perching on the edge of her seat with cup and saucer in hand, she looked at him with the intent stare of a cat about to trap a helpless mouse. “Lord Crosby, I hope you're enjoying this fine weather we are having.”

“The weather?” He shifted to note the sunlight pouring in the windows around them.

“Yes, my lord. It is a quite nice day, don't you agree?” She lifted her cup to her lips, pausing before taking a sip.

“I haven't given it much thought.” He couldn't stop staring at her mouth. Was she doing that thing with the teacup on purpose?

“That's…” She sighed. “Lord Crosby, this is what we are to discuss over tea, so I suggest you have an opinion one way or another about the brightness of the sun.”

“Is this the bit you had planned for Lord Winfield? I'm sure I should feel honored.” Instead he was only annoyed. He didn't want a conversation intended for another gentleman—he wanted… Well, best not to dwell on what he wanted if they were to keep things civilized. Instead he asked, “Why are you so interested in the weather?”

“My lord, you jest.” She laughed. Why was she laughing in such a false manner? He looked around to see if someone was jesting
him
this afternoon. But he only saw the maid's small, mournful shake of her head as if something tragic was occurring.

He narrowed his eyes on Evangeline. What was this about? Lowering his teacup to the small table, he said, “Listen, I don't know what we're doing here, but—”

“We're having tea and polite conversation, my lord.” She stated this as if it should be plain to anyone, and yet something about the situation was off.

“Is that what this is?” he asked, leaning forward to study her.

“Yes. When a gentleman comes to call, I'm to serve him tea and talk of the weather.” She took a sip of her tea, her lips curling up into a smile as she looked at him over the rim of the cup. “This is what you wanted. Do play along, Lord Crosby.”

“And the only available topic of conversation is…”

“The weather.”

“Clearly.” He'd turned the tables on plenty of people over a cup of tea, and this must be what it was like to be on the other end of that conversation. He had no idea where this was going, but if she intended to sell the weather, he would take as much as he could carry away. “May I ask a question of you? Do you want to discuss the weather? Because if I'm offending your long-standing devotion to fog or something of that nature…”

Her lips twitched as if she was fighting not to smile, but losing the battle. This first genuine smile of the afternoon lit her eyes and spread warmth into her cheeks. “I have no ties to fog of any kind.”

“And rain? Do you possess a kinship with rain? I wouldn't want to offend.”

Her smile broadened. “No, although I must admit a partiality to wind.”

“The sort that rips through towns, scattering leaves and turning everyone's hair on end?” he asked with a raised brow.

“Is there any other kind?” she teased.

“Not where I come from. My home was always littered with debris from the winds that blew in from the sea.”

“It
was
,” she said, her eyes narrowing on him. “You no longer live at home, then?”

“I haven't been there in some time.” He worked to keep the emotion from his voice, but failed. “My home is wherever I happen to be.”

“And you never stay long.”

“No. No, I don't.”

“Much like the wind,” she mused.

“Ah, and we're back to the weather.” He leaned back in his chair with a grin.

A door opened nearby, and footsteps sounded in the hall outside the parlor. Evangeline shot a panicked look at the maid, but the girl nodded for them to continue as she moved to the door and peered out into the hall. Nevertheless, they paused their conversation until the steps faded away.

“That would be Father. He's the one you're truly here to call upon, no matter what you claim.” Her gaze was unswerving, as if she was attempting to read his every thought. And God help him, he would let her. Her voice was small and almost frail as she added, “It's all right to leave, my lord.”

“And abandon this rousing discussion?” He grinned. He didn't know what he was doing, other than destroying his own plans, but he knew that the
my lords
and
Lord Crosbys
were driving him mad. For the first time in years, the falseness of his life grated on his nerves. He had the absurd desire to be honest with her, if only about his name.
Mr. Claughbane
or even his blasted given name of
Ashley
would be better than hearing Evangeline call him something wrong for one more second. “And it's Ash Clau—” he blurted out before stopping himself. “Ash,” he repeated.

“Is that your name?”

He knew what she was asking. He'd used two false names with her already, and she knew it. “I believe honesty is required during ‘civilized conversation over tea.'”

She shot a look to the maid before turning her attention back to him, keen awareness in her eyes. Perhaps his desire to hear his real name from her mouth was a bit rushed. He'd pushed the boundary of their tentative friendship. He should have known better, but it seemed with Evangeline he never did.

“Ash,” she finally said in a quiet voice just above a whisper, her full, pink lips pursed around the sound, drawing his attention to her mouth. After a moment of thought or perhaps indecision, she added, “You may call me Evangeline, or Evie if you prefer, not that you'll recall it when next we meet.”

Or perhaps he hadn't overstepped his bounds. His heart raced at the ease with which he'd procured the liberty of her first name. He'd wager Lord Winfield hadn't reached such heights with his discussion of the weather. “Which name do you prefer?”

“My sister always called me Evie,” she said, her eyes lighting with a smile as she spoke.

“I won't forget your name again. You have my word.” He paused, watching her. “Evie.”

Her breath grew shallow in the quiet of the room, and he watched as a blush crept up her neck. “In the name of honesty over tea, you shouldn't make that claim.”

“In the name of honesty over tea, I very much should.” There was no way he would forget her name again.

“Where did you go last year?” She looked down at her teacup with a shake of her head. “Apologies. You don't have to answer that. It's none of my concern. I should keep my mind upon…”

“Raindrops and breezes?” he asked. “I was only in town for a few days' time. Business matters, you know,” he added, hoping she wouldn't inquire further. It was the one bit of information he couldn't voice, and for some reason he had a devil of a time keeping secrets from Evie.

“And this season?” she asked. “When do you leave?”

“You seem rather anxious to be rid of me.” He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't see through his diversion. Leaving was a subject he didn't want to discuss. “What excitement do you have planned once I'm gone?”

“I…” She pressed her lips together and shot a glance toward the open door, then to the maid in the corner. “I shouldn't answer that. It's unseemly for a lady to discuss such intentions.”

“Now I must know.” He lowered his voice and leaned in to ask, “Are you to run off with a lover? You know, now that I've called on you, we're practically courting. Have a care. I'm sitting right here.” He was teasing her, and yet some small part of him was taking a bit too much pleasure in it. He should stop, but when did he ever follow the smart course of action? “Surely the upstanding gentleman you're courting should be told of such an arrangement.”

“No!” She breathed the word with enough force to drive back an army. “I have no
lover
. Why would you think such a thing?” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “This must be why I am to only discuss the weather.”

But instead of backing down with an apology, he leaned closer to whisper, “You have followed me into darkened halls three times, kissed me twice, and allowed me to touch you during a poetry reading. And we have only just begun a courtship.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair with a grin, knowing he was irritating her, but enjoying the way she became outraged with him.

“Stop it.” She looked around to see if her maid had heard him. “I did not kiss you. You kissed me. There is a difference.” She practically mouthed the words, not even daring a whisper.

“Is there?” he asked, as if they were still discussing the weather, before adding in a lower voice, “Because it seemed as if you wanted that kiss.” He narrowed his eyes on her. “Did you not want me to kiss you?”

“I… The sun is shining outside,” she blustered. “It's a lovely day, don't you agree?”

He ignored her attempt to change the subject, scooting his chair a fraction closer to hers to continue their hushed discussion instead. “Say that you did not want me to kiss you, and I will never kiss you again.”

“Hardly a cloud in the sky, which is unusual for London.”

“Do you want me to never kiss you again?”

“I'm sure the parks are busy.”

“What do you want, Evie?” His question was a quiet one, but it drew her attention.

“That hardly matters,” she whispered with a sadness he didn't quite understand lingering about her eyes.

“I would think what you want matters more than any sunny day.”

“What I want is to please those around me with my words, appearance, and actions,” she replied as if it was a line over-rehearsed for a play.

“What of you?” He shook his head, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “That wasn't what you were doing with me, was it? When you kissed me? Last night when I touched you? Evie, you can't set out to please any gentleman you see in a hall. Do you not know where that can lead?” He shouldn't be dissuading her from this line of thought—it played right into his own desires—but she was wrong. She should be the one who was pleased.

“How tawdry you think me,” she hissed. “Of course I wasn't attempting to please you the other night when you…when we…or last night, for that matter.”

“Then you did want to kiss me,” he said, relief flooding through him.

She didn't answer, which was answer enough.

“That's at least a start,” he muttered.

“Might we speak of something more appropriate for the remainder of our tea?”

“Like clouds? They hang in the sky and dump rain upon our heads. They don't require further discussion.” He would, however, like to know why she was so determined to only talk of the weather. “Evie,” he said, waiting for her to look up and meet his gaze.

Her clear blue eyes were bright with worry, but why? Granted, he wasn't one to have tea with young ladies often because he could further his plans more by spending his time with those who had excessive funds to dole out. But conversation over tea didn't seem the sort of thing even a
young
lady would be upset over.