Between a Rake and a Hard Place (5 page)

Just what did gentlemen think about the ladies in their lives?

She'd long ago come to terms with the way of the world. Society decreed that she was unable to support herself. A wellborn lady could dabble in water colors, but not make a business of selling them. She might volunteer for charity work but could not toil for hire. A lady needed the protection of a good man or her life would shortly become untenable. But didn't the dependency run both ways?

Don't they somehow need us as much as we do them?

And not just for playing hostess or producing an heir.

She eyed the glowing tip of the cigar, which was growing paler by the minute.

“Try not to let it go out,” Jonah had said.

As if she couldn't do such a simple thing. Remembering the way Jonah had drawn on the cigar and then produced a perfect smoke ring, she brought the cigar to her lips and inhaled.

A coughing fit exploded from her lungs. Her body's reaction was so violent, she nearly dropped both the cigar and the brandy.

“How utterly vile!” This was worse than black coffee by several thousand degrees of magnitude.

Drat.
Jonah would think her a weak female, unable to rise to the occasion of a masculine pleasure.

She put the cigar down, balancing it on the silver tray on his mantel. Its tip glowed at her, malevolent as a single red eye. How could she pretend to enjoy this miserable thing, and for a whole hour, no less?

The burning tip began to fade again. If she let the dratted thing go out, Jonah would know she hadn't had the courage to see this adventure through. He'd think her weak. Her father had always drilled into her that the world could tolerate many flaws, but weakness was not one of them.

There was nothing else for it. As if it were a spoon filled with castor oil, she picked up the cigar, and, with shoulders squared, she brought it again to her mouth.

***

The messenger was hunkered before the fire in the parlor, warming his hands before the cheery blaze.

“State your business and be quick about it, man,” Jonah said. “I have a guest I cannot keep waiting.”

“This shouldn't take long, sir.” The fellow straightened and turned around. There was something familiar about the man's hooked nose and receding hairline.

“I know you. Mr. Clyde, I believe. You're in Lord Rhys Warrington's employ, are you not?” Jonah was pleasantly surprised. He'd expected the runner to have come from Mr. Alcock with yet another ultimatum. He'd never believed in punishing the bearer of bad tidings, but he'd have been sorely tempted in that case.

“Yes, I've been with his lordship for many years,” the man said, twisting his cap in his hands. “I'm gratified that you remember me, sir.”

“Ordinarily I would ask how my friend fares, but I do have a pressing matter I'm attending to at the moment,” Jonah said. “What message have you for me?”

Mr. Clyde's eyes slid up and to the right as if the message might be found hovering there above his head. “Lord Rhys asks will you join him and Nathaniel Colton at the Blind Pony in Whitechapel two days hence at ten o'clock in the evening?”

“Why?” Jonah wasn't afraid to walk any street in the city, but some environs led to violence more quickly than others. Just because he was more than capable of defending himself didn't mean he relished doing it.

“Lord Rhys has information concerning a person who has agreed to testify as to your innocence in the matter of Maubeuge.”

“That's excellent news.”

“Yes, it is, but not all is well.” Mr. Clyde's woeful expression reminded Jonah of a basset hound. “The man is no longer in London and the three of you must agree on a plan to find him.”

Jonah paced the length of the small space in a few quick strides. If they could secure this witness and clear their names once and for all, perhaps he wouldn't have to ruin Serena Osbourne. He hoped he wouldn't.

Not that he didn't want to bed her. That wasn't in the least dispute. But if he spoiled her reputation, he'd destroy her spirit and that was becoming a thoroughly repugnant prospect. He found her a delightful oddity among young ladies. She deserved to be celebrated, not shamed. Jonah turned back to his friend's servant.

“Tell your master I'll be there.”

A little bird whispered to this reporter that Princess Victoria Mary Louisa of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, sister of Prince Leopold, may have stolen the march on one of the British misses competing in the Hymen Race Terrific. According to rumor, correspondence has been flying across the Channel at a breakneck pace. If a certain Lady S. wishes to catch a certain royal duke's eye, she had better do it speedily or we may be forced to endure yet another monarch for whom English is not his mother tongue.

From
Le Dernier Mot,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

“Serena. Wake up, dearest.”

The gentle voice was a blessedly familiar one and Serena followed it, albeit unwillingly, up through several layers of oblivion. She opened one eye, then promptly squeezed it shut again when a narrow shaft of brittle sunlight struck it.

Humming softly under her breath, Amelia threw back the thick damask draperies at both of Serena's windows with a rustle of fabric. The sound of the wooden casement being pushed up and the subsequent wash of brisk air made Serena burrow further beneath her coverlet.

“Are you still feeling ill?”

She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. The rancid taste of the cigar clung to her hard palate and teeth. She didn't answer, but flipped the blankets back to cast a bleary-eyed gaze at Amelia.

“You poor dear.” Amelia hitched a hip on the side of the bed as she leaned forward to smooth Serena's hair back from her forehead. “No fever, so far as I can tell, but you do look a bit green.”

Serena sat up and drew a deep breath, which set her coughing. Evidently some of the cigar smoke she'd inhaled had taken up residence in her lungs and her body was still intent on expelling it. A lock of hair fell forward to graze her cheek. The reek of smoke was strong on it. How could Amelia not smell it?

“What a horrid cough. If I'd known how ill you were, I'd never have let you go home by yourself last night. Especially since the tenor never quite lived up to his potential.” Amelia crossed over to the small table where a breakfast tray waited. “Do you think you could take some tea and toast?”

“I'll try.”

Amelia fixed Serena's tea just as she liked it, adding a dollop of milk and two sugar lumps, and brought the cup and saucer to her. “Do you think you could also try to tell me the truth?”

“What do you mean?” Serena accepted the tea and buried her nose in the cup.

“You smell as if you spent last evening in a smoking room.”

“There were several gentlemen smoking outside the theatre when I took some air between acts.” That was at least true.

“I know you didn't arrive home by the hansom your footman hailed for you. Sir Jonah Sharp brought you. Mr. Brownsmith said the gentleman carried you into the house because you were too overcome to walk and his gig was the only conveyance on the street. There was no hired vehicle.”

She had hazy recollections of Mr. Brownsmith's concern when Jonah swept in with her in his arms. The steward directed him up the grand staircase and into Serena's bedchamber so her chambermaid could help her into bed. She'd counted on discretion from the help, but she should have realized there were no secrets in a great house with so many servants. “I wasn't aware our steward is in the habit of discussing me with others.”

“Mr. Brownsmith is hardly carrying tales, if that's what's worrying you. He spoke to me, and me only, in strictest confidence. Now what happened after you left the opera house?”

“I…became so ill in the hansom that the driver was concerned enough to stop. Luckily, Sir Jonah happened along and…” Looking into Amelia's concerned face, Serena realized she couldn't lie to her. “No, that's not what happened.”

Amelia sat on the edge of the bed again. “Tell me, dear.”

“I crossed item number three off the list.”

Amelia's eyes grew wide. “You smoked a cigar?”

“Yes, but apparently I didn't do it right.” Serena told her about Sir Jonah's offer to help her experience that forbidden pleasure. She explained how they'd managed for her to sneak away from the opera, then out of the hansom and into his gig within a few blocks. To Amelia's credit, she didn't interrupt or chide, though her lips were drawn in a tight line.

“Everything would have gone swimmingly if Sir Jonah hadn't been called away from his study by a messenger at the wrong time. He hadn't instructed me how to merely hold the smoke in my mouth without inhaling, and while he was gone, I…well, how could I know there is a special knack to smoking a cigar?”

“And that's how you came to be ill?”

She nodded miserably. By the time Jonah had returned to the study, she was retching into the rubbish bin beside his desk. Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she recalled how the man had held her hair back and pressed a clean handkerchief to her forehead while she emptied her stomach.

“That was most unwise, Serena. You were unchaperoned in a man's home,” Amelia said. “If it were discovered, you'd be ruined.”

“Yes, I know, but I was so violently ill, there was no question of anything untoward happening.” And nothing untoward ever would happen between her and Sir Jonah. She doubted he'd ever be able to look at her again without remembering how sick she'd been.

“At least the experience was wretched enough, you needn't worry that I'll make a habit of cigars,” she said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Amelia refused to be mollified. Her brows drew together in a frown. “We shall have to put out the tale about you becoming ill in the hansom and Sir Jonah happening along to offer assistance. I assume the gentleman can be trusted to be discreet enough to go along if he hears that version of events.”

The ride home in his gig was a blur in her mind, but what Serena remembered most clearly was the way he drove one-handed. His other arm was around her, supporting and warming her as her head lolled on his shoulder. She couldn't recall what he said to her exactly, but she remembered his voice, low and soothing as they rattled over the cobbles. Despite being more than a little mortified, she'd been strangely comforted by this man she'd known for so little time.

“He'll be discreet,” she assured Amelia.

A quick rap sounded on the door to Serena's bedchamber. Then without waiting for permission to enter, her maid Eleanor breezed in bearing a dozen yellow roses arranged with a bit of baby's breath in a crystal vase. “Oh, good. You're awake, milady. These flowers arrived for you just now. There's a card.”

The maid set the vase down on the small table with a lyre base near one of the windows. “That'll do, I reckon.” Then she plucked out the card and brought it to Serena. “Your father wishes to see you as soon as you're able, milady. He knows you've been indisposed, so there's no need for haste. Shall I lay out your day dress?”

“Give me half an hour to finish my tea and eat a bite, Eleanor. Come back then and I'll be ready to rise.”

“Lady Serena will need a bath before she dresses to see his lordship. Please see to it.” Amelia waited for the maid to leave before adding, “We must wash the smoke from your hair. Your father is no fool, you know.”

Then she crossed over to bury her nose in the fragrant bouquet. “Hothouse roses in March. These must have cost the earth. They're from the Duke of Kent, I presume?”

Her royal suitor must have been having her watched very closely if he was already apprised of her leaving the opera early on account of illness. Serena tore open the gilded note. The message was written with an aggressive hand, the strokes thick and angular. More than one blotch of ink marred the foolscap.

But the words were gentleness itself.

I
trust
these
blossoms
find
you
feeling
better. Forgive me for ruining your adventure.

It was signed simply with a “J.”

“The flowers are from Sir Jonah,” she said, carefully refolding the note. Perhaps he wasn't as repulsed by her as she feared. A little thrill shot from her wrist up her arm, the same wrist he'd kissed as if he were a pilgrim worshipping before a shrine. “How thoughtful.”

Amelia's expression grew even more concerned. “Have a care, Serena.”

“Why? Doesn't this signify that Sir Jonah will protect my good name? He didn't even sign the note properly. How much more discreet could he be?”

Amelia sat once more on the bed and took both Serena's hands. “Trust me, dearest, you don't want to become involved with the wrong man.”

“We are not ‘involved.' I simply had a bit of an adventure with him that didn't go as I hoped.”

“Two adventures,” Amelia corrected.

“I suppose if you want to be a stickler about it, yes, but the incident at Boodles was not planned.”

“I wouldn't be too sure about that.” Amelia rose and walked to the open window. She shut it down with such a vigorous shove, Serena feared for the panes. “Men sometimes spend a great deal of time arranging for things to happen in a seemingly natural way.”

“You're too wary, Amelia.”

“And you're not wary enough. I would not see you harmed.”

“The man whisked me away from a potentially scandalous situation at Boodles. Last night, I'm embarrassed to admit he tended me when I was quite ill, and after that, he brought me home safely and without exciting anyone's notice.” Serena tucked the note from Jonah under her pillow. “Now he sends flowers. I fail to see the intended harm in his actions, and I don't understand your misgivings.”

“I hope you never do.” Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window.

Serena considered her friend for a moment. Amelia had never mentioned having a man in her life. She'd been born the daughter of a baron, but since she had no brothers, the estate went to her cousin when her father died. The new baron allowed Amelia's mother to use the small dowager's cottage on the estate, but it was in such disrepair and so damp, Amelia's mother succumbed to the ague during her second winter there. Her cousin refused to provide a dowry for Amelia. But he did find a way to place her as a governess to Serena—though more likely to gain influence with the Marquis of Wyndleton than to secure a future for Amelia.

Serena considered that a very lucky day for her. Now she wondered how Amelia felt about exchanging her expectations of marriage and a family of her own for taking care of an admittedly difficult girl who'd just lost her mother. Had her friend enjoyed a
tendresse
for some swain that was upturned when a dowry wasn't forthcoming?

“You speak as if you've been hurt by a man, Amelia. I know your cousin behaved abominably toward you, but was there someone else as well?”

Amelia turned suddenly, a hand splayed across her chest. Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but then she closed them firmly.

“It won't do to keep your father waiting,” she said as she made for the door. “I'll send Eleanor to you.”

***

“There you are, daughter.” Serena's father rose from behind his massive desk and came around it to plant a dry kiss on her cheek. “I understand you've been unwell.”

“I'm fine now, Father.” She hoped the thorough scrubbing with tooth powder had expunged the last of the cigar scent. “It was only a passing malady.”

“I'm demmed glad to hear it, my dear, demmed glad. Please have a seat.” He indicated one of the two leather wing chairs before the blue Delft stove that heated his study. He settled into the other chair and steepled his hands before him, his heavy signet ring glinting in the gaslight.

Unlike Amelia, her father wasn't a fan of letting sunshine invade his home. “Fades the taxidermy,” he always complained. Since the shelves of his study were crowded with stuffed badgers and grouse, and a somewhat mangy black bear reared on its hind feet in one corner of the room, the drapes were habitually drawn in his study and the gas lamps lit. He cocked his head and studied her as if she were one of his many hunting trophies.

“Now, be so good as to explain how you came to be separated from Miss Braithwaite and Lady Lysandra at the opera and found yourself in the company of the hairy-legged honyock who brought you home, ill and disheveled.”

“Sir Jonah is not a…” What on earth was a honyock? And how could her father know if his legs were hairy or not? All Serena knew was that Jonah's lips on her wrist ought to be listed among the seven deadly sins. “He was…most helpful.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Tell me, daughter.”

Her father's voice was soft, but the imperative edge beneath the words was undeniable. She drew a deep breath, laced her fingers together, and recited the lie she'd started to tell Amelia. It was surprisingly easier the second time. Her conscience pained her, but the truth would not give her father comfort and the lie wouldn't hurt him.

“…and so, since the driver of the hansom was so distraught over my illness, Sir Jonah very kindly brought me home in his gig,” she finished.

Her father's brows arched as he considered her words and then settled when he finally decided to accept them. “Your color is poor, Serena. I'm sending you to Wyndebourne. You'll leave on the morrow.”

“But Father, the Season will start in another month or so and—”

“And by then you'll be back in London. If you're recovering from a malady, however transitory, a little time in the country is just what's wanted to put the roses back into your cheeks.” His expression changed from one of censure to one of concern. “It will not do for the Duke of Kent to suspect you are fragile or prone to sickness.”

“But I'm not.”

“I know that, but his advisors may not be aware of the general good health we Osbournes enjoy.” Even though the marquis was on the downhill slope of fifty winters, he was still elegantly trim with only a smattering of gray at the temples. He could easily be mistaken for a man ten or fifteen years younger than his true age.