Amanda Scott (14 page)

“If you think I’m going to leave you here without so much as a pound in your pocket, to go begging from your friends, you are very much mistaken.”

“Oh, I’ll leave now. I haven’t got a feather to fly with until I can get another draft on Father’s bank. Moreover, having stayed up till dawn the past two nights, I don’t mind going home and getting some sleep. I’ll even allow you to take me with you if you promise not to lecture me all the way.”

Repressing an urge to throttle him, Nick nodded and silently led the way downstairs to the street door. When he called for his tilbury, however, a lad ran up to him and said urgently, “I say, sir, be you my Lord Vexford?”

Nick nodded, and the boy thrust a sealed note into his hand. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a shilling and tossed it to him, then broke the seal.

“Who’s it from?” Oliver demanded. “No trouble at home, I hope.”

“Do you think Preston or Figmore would send a street urchin with a message for me?” Nick asked sardonically, turning just enough to defeat Oliver’s blatant attempt to read over his shoulder. “It appears that I am not going to take you home, Ollie, but if you will accept some advice, you won’t go anywhere else. You may pretend to have no fear of my temper, but I promise you’ll be sorry if you persist in maintaining the insolent attitude you assumed upstairs just now.”

Oliver had the grace to look abashed. “I won’t. I ain’t a complete fool, Nick, but where are you going?”

“That, my dear fellow, is none of your affair.”

“Then it’s a female, I’ll wager.”

“Be off while you can still walk and talk,” Nick advised him. He did not have any intention of telling him that for once he had hit the mark. The missive, reeking of some exotic perfume, was from Clara, Lady Hawthorne. Although she couched her demand in diplomatic terms, she was clearly incensed with him and expected him to present himself at her house at once to explain just what he had meant by abandoning her in Newmarket without a single word of explanation or farewell.

W
HEN NICK DREW UP
his tilbury in front of Lady Hawthorne’s tall, narrow house in Clarges Street, he found light pouring from every window. Had he not known better, he might have thought the lady was giving a party, if not a full dress ball, but he knew that Clara’s house was always brightly lighted, and with wax candles. She did not think any more highly of the smelly new gas lighting than Lord Ulcombe did.

Leaving the tilbury with the under-groom who had attended it throughout his search for Oliver, he mounted the steps and rapped sharply on the front door. It opened at once, and the haughty-looking butler no sooner saw him that he relaxed and beamed at him, saying, “Good evening, my lord, and welcome. We have been expecting you these two hours and more. You will find her ladyship in her boudoir.”

“Thank you, Greaves. I’ll go straight up.”

The door to her ladyship’s boudoir was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, revealing a room decorated in moss green and pale pink. An Aubusson carpet covered the floor, its pink roses and pale green leaves echoing the pattern of the voluminous curtains at the windows and the upholstery of the exquisite Sheraton furniture. A cheerful fire in the Adam fireplace filled the room with warmth, but if Nick hoped for a similarly warm welcome from the room’s sole occupant, he soon learned his error.

He had not, in fact, anticipated any such thing, and so he was not moved when the lovely woman curled up on a claw-footed sofa in the left window embrasure failed even to look up when he entered. She continued to read the book she held, its pages lighted by several branches of candles on the table beside the sofa. Her golden head glinted in the candlelight. Her hair, fashionably styled and adorned with jeweled clips, was the exact color of a guinea coin, but Nick found himself comparing it unfavorably with Miss Seacourt’s smooth flaxen tresses.

Collecting himself he said blandly, “An affecting pose, my dear, but since you sent for me, I should think the least you could do is say hallo.”

She looked up at last and frowned at him, saying in her low-pitched, sultry voice, “Nicky, you are a very naughty boy. I sent the lad to look for you hours ago. I had quite given up waiting, which is why you find me
en déshabillé.”

“I generally do find you
en déshabillé,
my dear. No,” he added, “pray, don’t attempt to blush. Coyness does not suit you. And before you begin ripping up at me for leaving Newmarket, let me say that I found your note a trifle impertinent. Not only did I not escort you to Newmarket—although you seem to have told everyone I did—but I told you there was no use in your going, except for your own pleasure. With two horses running, I was of no mind to dance attendance on any female.”

She pouted. “If you are going to be cruel, Nicky, you will distress me very much. I thought you loved me.”

“You never thought any such thing, and I’ll thank you not to waste my time playing off such fantasies.”

“Why did you come then?”

“I came because you asked me to come, and because I occasionally find you amusing. I am not, however, amused by whining or by tantrums, Clara, so pray do not inflict such behavior on me now. I have had a very trying day.”

“Trying?” She bristled, set her book aside, and stood up. “Despite having horses running both today and Friday—and Prince Florizel lost, in case no one told you—Despite that, and despite having no time for females, I was informed, Nicky
darling,
that you left Newmarket in the company of a very beautiful young female. Do you mean to pretend that’s not true?”

“If it is, it is certainly no business of yours.”

“But of course it is my business! Why, everyone knows you’ve been paying me a great deal of attention, and no fewer than six persons told me about this female. At least two of them said she was beautiful, Nicky, and would cast me into the shade.”

“Now I know you are lying, Clara.”

“Well, I’m glad you think she won’t, but how dare you accuse me of lying!”

“Because you are. You give yourself away every time.”

“How?”

“I shan’t tell you that. But although you might have caught wind of a rumor, I’ll go bail it was no more than that.”

“At least
two
people told me who
must
have known the truth.” She pouted again. “Don’t you love me, Nicky? Truly? Come and put your arms around me. Because you abandoned me, I was forced to accept another man’s escort back to London. Although he was charming enough to drive you mad with jealousy, we were driven at a wicked pace all the way, so even if he had wanted to make love to me, he had no chance. Then I hurried through my bath, just to smell good when you hugged me. Would you put all my effort to waste?” She spread her arms invitingly.

He did not respond. Frowning, he said, “You have become too imperious and too possessive for my taste, madam, and I do not relish petty attempts to make me jealous. If you have begun to pretend that I hold more than a slight affection for you, it would be as well to end matters between us here and now.”

“Most of the
beau monde
believes you love me,” she murmured, moving slowly toward him, her hips swaying seductively beneath the silken robe she wore. “Why, any number of people have asked when you mean to set a date for our wedding, and though I have assured them all over and over that we are only friends, so it is, Nicky. Would you make me appear to be the victim of a common jilt?”

He was annoyed, and apparently it showed, for she stopped in her tracks and her eyes widened warily. He said softly, “You understand the rules of the game we’ve played as well as I do, Clara. You will collect no winnings with this wild cast.”

She stamped her foot. “You think all life is a game, Nicky, a hand of cards to be won or lost by the best player! I suppose you have no acquaintance with such common human failings as jealousy. Oh, no, and I suppose you are not at all displeased to learn that I danced with other men, or even that the one who escorted me here from Newmarket was extremely handsome and debonair. What do you say to that, sir?”

He shook his head. “Fortunately, I am not cursed with a jealous nature, my dear, but since you don’t see that as a blessing, no doubt you are well rid of me.”

“Nicky, no! You promised to buy me a gold bracelet, damn you!”

“And you shall have it, my dear, for though I am not entirely suitable as a lover, I am certainly a man of my word.”

“Nicky, please don’t go.”

He went, and he did not turn back. Clara’s affectations had long since ceased to amuse him, but he had found it easier to continue the relationship than to exert himself to end it. Ignoring her continued entreaties and—before he had reached the hall—her shrieks of temper, he left the house, feeling only relief to be gone.

As he climbed into his tilbury, he remembered the wary look on Clara’s face when she had angered him, and remembered, too, thinking not long before that he had never frightened a woman. Perhaps, he told himself now, he ought to be more careful about that—not with Clara, who had deserved to be frightened a bit, but with others.

When he drove the tilbury through the high archway leading from St. James’s Square to the Barrington House stables, he was tired and yearning for his bed. Handing the reins to the under-groom, he jumped down and entered the house through a side door, using his key, since the servants had long since retired. A candle lay waiting for him on a mahogany side table in the anteroom, and lighting it, he made his way to his bedchamber. Without bothering to ring for Lisset or to do more than remove his clothing, he fell into bed and went right to sleep.

The following morning he was awakened betimes by his valet shaking him and saying, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but it is just upon seven o’clock now.”

“So what?” Nick growled.

“You requested that I waken you, sir.”

“The devil I did. Go away, Lisset.”

“I found your note when I returned, my lord. Perhaps you do not recall writing it. I will get your shaving gear and clothing at once,” he added, the sound of his voice indicating that he was moving away toward the dressing room.

“There’s nothing amiss with my memory, damn you. Go away.”

“I am merely following your orders, my lord,” the valet said stiffly.

Recognizing offended dignity, Nick opened bleary eyes and looked at him. Lisset had paused on the dressing-room threshold with Nick’s discarded clothing draped over one arm, and he looked as offended as he had sounded. He also seemed to be very much in earnest.

“Lisset,” Nick said evenly, “I have sworn off brandy, and I was quite sober when I returned to the house last night. I came straight here, threw off my clothes, as you see, and fell straight into bed. I did not write any notes, to you or to anyone.”

“I can show it to you, sir, in your own handwriting, just as soon as I—” He had turned and stepped into the dressing room, so Nick could no longer see him, but after a moment of stunned silence, Lisset exclaimed, “Good gracious me!”

Fully awake now, whether he chose to be or not, Nick sat up in the bed and said, “What the devil is amiss now?”

The valet returned to the doorway, his eyes wide with shock. “My lord, you will surely question my sanity now. Your clothing is gone.”

“Nonsense, how can it be gone?”

“Well, I have not searched every drawer, but the doors to the wardrobe are open, and the drawers of the dresser, as well, and—” He broke off again. The startled look on his face quickly changed to one of exasperation, and he exclaimed, “Young Master Oliver! I ought to have guessed at once! Oh, how I’d like to—”

“Gently, Lisset,” Nick warned. “I cannot allow even you to utter threats against my obnoxious brother. Moreover, while I am perfectly willing to believe that it was he who set you on to wake me hours before he knew I would want to be wakened, I refuse to believe him so lost to sanity as to have stolen my clothing.”

Cocking his head as if he had heard something, Lisset said, “I beg your pardon, sir, one moment.” He turned and went into the dressing room.

When an urgent murmur of voices ensued, Nick got out of bed and went to see what was going on. Just before he reached the doorway, he heard Lisset say, “Don’t gabble so, girl. Tell me plainly what you know.”

Nick saw that a scared-looking housemaid faced his valet. Visibly gathering her wits, she said, “Oh, Mr. Lisset, sir, I do beg your pardon, but ’tis the oddest thing, and Cook did say I were to run up here and tell you at once, sir.”

“Then do, for heaven’s sake, tell me.”

“His lordship’s clothing, sir, it be—Oh!” She broke off, covering her mouth with a gasp when she saw Nick standing in the doorway

He stepped hastily back, but she made no attempt to continue until he looked round the door again and said, “What about my clothing, girl? Where is it?”

Blushing furiously, she said in a rush, “In the courtyard, sir, in heaps, like it were flung out the window, Cook says. A fearful lot of clothing, it is, too, m’ lord.”

Lisset collected his dignity and said with aplomb, “Thank you, you may go now. And mind, girl, I don’t want to hear any of the other servants prattling about this.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Lisset. I-I wouldn’t!”

“See that you don’t.” When she had gone, he moved swiftly to the window overlooking the courtyard, flung open the casement, and stuck his head out. Then, looking grimly over his shoulder at Nick, he said, “Every stitch and button, sir. Even your shoes. Mr. Oliver must have quite taken leave of his senses.”

“I would agree with you, Lisset, if I believed Oliver had done this, but I don’t.” He was perfectly willing to believe that Oliver’s predilection for practical jokes had led him to forge the note Lisset had found. What he did not believe for a minute was that his brother could be so lost to a generally active sense of personal preservation as to have cast all of Nick’s expensive clothing into the courtyard. He believed, instead, that such an act must have been perpetrated by someone much less well acquainted than Oliver was with his temper—someone destined, on the other hand, to become particularly well acquainted with it in the very near future.