Between a Rake and a Hard Place (6 page)

“But if I skitter off to the country,” Serena said, “won't that suggest I'm too ill for London Society?”

“No, because the crème de la crème will hear of the charity ball and house party you'll be planning to be held at Wyndebourne just before the start of the Season. The Duke of Kent needs to see you pulling off a brilliant fete that will both do good and make you look demmed good at the same time.” Her father leaned forward, took her hands, and smiled at her. Then his smile faded completely. “The threat of the German princess is quite real.”

Serena didn't feel threatened by the distant lady. Surely, Kent would prefer a wellborn English miss to become his duchess, but the rumors concerning the duke's correspondence with Prince Leopold's sister obviously distressed her father. “I understand. I shall do my best to make you proud. What charity would you like me to champion?”

“Confound it all, what was that noble cause Lady Hepplewhite was trumpeting at her dinner a week or so back?” Her father's brow furrowed a bit, then he smacked his thigh. “I have it! Our ball will benefit the Orphans of Veterans of Foreign Wars. Not only is it a popular charity with His Royal Highness—the duke was quite the military man himself, you know—it has the added benefit of reminding everyone that this German princess he's considering is
foreign
.”

“You're always so clever, Father.”

He preened a bit under her praise. “Must be where you get it then, daughter,” he said with an indulgent smile. “I'm sure Miss Braithwaite will aid you as you plan the event. Hire all the additional help you need. Spare no expense. Take your modiste with you to Wyndebourne and have her make something dazzling.”

Serena warmed to her father's plan. It would be a good deal of work to organize such an occasion, but after her disastrous adventure of last evening, this more conventional one sounded made to order. And she did love the ancestral country seat of the Osbournes. The sprawling Georgian manor house was situated on a bluff overlooking the Channel and surrounded by verdant countryside that would grow more spring green with each passing day.

“Between extra servants, musicians, and modiste, I suspect I'll need a couple of coaches just to transport my entourage to Wyndebourne.”

“Better become accustomed to it, my dear. Once you are royal, you'll never stir a step without a whole demmed gaggle of retainers and aids.”

The marquis had meant it as an enticement, but to Serena, being hedged about with so many hangers-on sounded vaguely like a rolling prison. Still, she wanted to please her father and this was the perfect opportunity to make up for the foolish chances she'd taken of late.

A soft rap sounded on the door to the marquis's study.

“Come,” he said.

Mr. Brownsmith, the estate steward, entered, his spine ramrod straight despite his sixty-some years. He'd begun his service with the Osbourne family as a bootblack boy, then worked his way up through the ranks of footmen and butlers to follow his father into the position of steward. He had a role in just about every doing of the family, and his pale gray eyes were still sharp enough not to miss a thing.

“Your pardon, milord,” Mr. Brownsmith said with a deferential inclination of his head. “I didn't realize Lady Serena was still here.”

“She was just leaving,” her father announced. He offered her his hand and she took it as she rose. He gave her fingertips a gentle squeeze before he released them. “I'm sure you've already thought of half a dozen things that want doing before you depart for Wyndebourne.”

“You know me well, Father.” She gave the steward a smile. “Mr. Brownsmith, if you'd be so good as to attend me later this afternoon. His lordship wishes us to host a ball. We need to discuss caterers and musicians and myriad other things before I leave London.”

“Very good, milady.”

The marquis watched her leave, her slender back and sprightly step reminding him fleetingly of her mother. He waited for the old ache to throb, but time and other cares had reduced his grief over losing his marchioness to mere wistfulness and mild regret. Once the door closed behind his precious daughter, he took his seat behind the desk again.

“A gentleman unknown to me brought my daughter home last night when she was unwell. However much I appreciate his timely assistance, I cannot allow that to stand. It is untenable that anyone should form an acquaintance with Serena unless I have approved it,” he said. “Well, Brownsmith, what have you discovered about this Sir Jonah Sharp?”

The steward pulled a small journal from his inside waistcoat pocket and thumbed through the dog-eared pages. “Jonah Adrian Sharp—second son of Lord Topfield.”

“Hmm. Good man, that.” Even though he and Viscount Topfield were on opposite sides of the political spectrum, they'd worked together on the issue of child labor in the House of Lords. Nothing had been done to correct the problem yet, but he and the viscount had made some inroads with key peers. “But Sharp is not his heir. I take it the young gentleman is without prospects.”

“That is correct. However, he did earn his baronetcy.” Brownsmith consulted his notes once again. “And he owns a tidy property in Wiltshire, which produces a respectable income, as well as a house in Town. I could find no evidence of inordinate gambling debts. By all accounts, he seems to have done well with his investments.”

So
he's not looking to borrow money from Serena
, the marquis thought.
There's a mercy.
“How did he come by his baronetcy?”

Brownsmith snapped the journal shut and stowed it back in his pocket. “That seems to be something of a mystery. Whatever service Sir Jonah rendered the Crown, it is not something he noises about.”

The marquis drummed his fingers on his desk. “Commission our most trusted Bow Street runner to discover this information. Prinny may have elevated the gentleman on a whim. Perhaps Sir Jonah merely removed an inconvenient harlot from the Prince Regent's bedchamber.”

“I think not, milord.” Mr. Brownsmith took the journal out again and made note of the order to hire a runner. “Sir Jonah's reputation is…more shadowy than that. There are rumors about a military incident shortly before the Battle of Waterloo and—”

“If he's bloody well still accepted in Society, it couldn't have been that bad.” The marquis waved a hand, dismissing the matter. “There are plenty of rumors about the Duke of Kent's military service as well, come to that.” The royal duke's harsh discipline of the soldiers serving under him when he was governor of Gibraltar led to a scandalous mutiny and finally his recall to England. “I believe it's time I had a conversation with
Sir
Jonah Sharp. Send Oliver and Ulrich to collect him.”

“Very good, milord. Where would you like him deposited?”

“Bring him to the usual place.”

When a potential crown is at stake, one wonders to what lengths a father will go in order to ensure his daughter's success in securing the most brilliant of matches. Likely all usual constraints are cast aside. And if that's so, this reporter wonders what possible reason the Marquis of W could have for engaging a certain baronet whose reputation for skullduggery and mayhem is well known, if not well documented, in an arguably forced clandestine conversation?

From
Le Dernier Mot,

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

Jonah had never been to White's. It was deucedly difficult to gain entrance to the hallowed halls unless one's name was listed on the rolls. He wasn't a member of the club, and frankly, the Tory-leaning reputation of the place didn't commend itself to him.

However, with Lord Wyndleton's two beefy lieutenants marching in lockstep on either side of him, Jonah was ushered in without challenge. Easily his match for height and weight, the fellows who walked beside Jonah had the look of a pair of pugilists, one sporting a permanently lazy eyelid and the other a cauliflower ear. They escorted Jonah past the fabled table in the bow window on the ground floor where the fashionable elite held court, and on to an alcove in the back of the main room of White's.

Seated in a splendid Tudor chair, its age-darkened wood a throwback to a more barbaric time, was the Marquis of Wyndleton. The man was certainly wearing his station. His superfine tailcoat was meticulously tailored to mold to his form. His waistcoat was cloth-of-gold, and his white cravat was starched in a series of complicated knots that would have baffled even Brummell.

“Sir Jonah Sharp,” Wyndleton said, his blue eyes going steely. “How good of you to join me. We have not been formally introduced. I am—”

“I know who you are, milord,” Jonah said. “And—”

“And quite frankly,” the marquis cut in, determined to one-up him in interruptions, “I didn't give you much choice in coming, did I?”

Jonah shrugged. “On the contrary, I had two choices. I could accompany these…gentlemen willingly, or I could lay them both out.”

Lord Wyndleton smiled unpleasantly. “I'd bloody well pay good money to see that.”

If
I'm to be thrown out of White's, I may as well give them good reason.
Quick as thought, Jonah shot out both arms and brought his fists up in explosive jabs to the two guards' jaws. Then he delivered elbows to their guts, doubling them over, and finally swept their legs out from under them with a whirling kick. While the men groaned on the polished floors, Jonah liberated a chair from a nearby table and sat, crossing his legs unconcernedly. A coterie of staff members from the club came skittering up.

“Sir, we must ask you kindly to leave these premises forthwith,” the head waiter said, his face flushed and his eyes wide. “This club tolerates no physical violence.”

“Nothing untoward has taken place, Watkins,” the marquis said as his guards struggled to rise. “A misunderstanding only. Think nothing of it.”

Watkins clamped his lips shut. Without another word, the servants bowed and returned to their duties.

“Well, that's a good trick,” Jonah said. “One word from you and people disregard the evidence of their own eyes.”

“That's because once I point out their error, my inferiors generally realize that the world is not as they see it.”

“How is it then?”

“The world is as I say it is,” Wyndleton said grandly.

“How convenient for you.”

“For them as well.” The marquis examined his fingernails for a moment and then folded his aristocratic hands on his lap. His heavy signet ring glinted brightly. “It removes the burden of decision-making from less able shoulders.”

“I hope you haven't made the mistake of numbering me in that group,” Jonah said. “I'm perfectly capable of both seeing the world clearly and making my own decisions about it.”

The two pugilists were upright now and looking to the marquis for further instructions.

Lord Wyndleton gave his guards a weary glance and waved the men away. They retreated to a nearby table where they could keep an eye on him and Jonah while licking their wounds over cups of hot chocolate and finger sandwiches.

“Those decisions of yours are what interest me, Sir Jonah,” the marquis said. “Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me about which one led to your elevation to a baronetcy.”

Jonah had never told a soul about it, and he damn well wouldn't start with this man simply for the asking. “I performed a service to the Crown.”

The marquis squinted one eye at him in a withering gaze. “Obviously.”

“I am not at liberty to share the specifics.”

“I assure you, Sir Jonah, I have His Majesty's utmost trust.”

“As do I.” Jonah met the marquis's glare without a blink. “Which is why I can't discuss the matter.”

Lord Wyndelton's color deepened and a muscle worked furiously in his cheek. “Then let us turn to a matter you will discuss or I'll know the reason why. You brought my daughter home from the opera last night. How did that extraordinary circumstance come about?”

“I'm sure Lady Serena has already explained the situation to you. I have nothing to add to her account,” he said, hoping she'd neglected to mention her unhappy experience with his Cuban cigar. “I was glad to be of service and trust the lady is recovered from her illness.”

The marquis frowned. “She ought not to have left the opera alone. My daughter is a remarkable young lady in many respects, but she's far too casual about her personal safety.”

Jonah cut a glance at the two men he'd recently introduced to the floor. “I'm frankly surprised you didn't send those two with her to the opera.”

“They wouldn't have been able to stay awake,” Wyndleton said with a curl of his lip. “I made the mistake of settling for sending her footman who was easily distracted. And my daughter absolutely rebels at the idea of having guards dogging her steps when she moves in Society.”

Jonah suppressed a smile. The will of the indomitable Marquis of Wyndleton was thwarted by his slip of a daughter. Obviously, he wasn't the only one for whom the world was as he proclaimed it.

“The lady will have to change her mind on that issue if the match with the Duke of Kent comes to pass,” Jonah said. “Royalty is never without company or protection.”

“Quite, though convivial company is to be preferred over obvious security providers.” Lord Wyndleton's expression turned thoughtful. “I pride myself on being a discerning judge of character, and it occurs to me that you have several useful qualities, Sir Jonah.”

“Such as?”

“You know how to hold your tongue, even when not doing so might be personally beneficial for you. You seem to have a care for a lady's safety as well as her reputation. And you are more than able to handle yourself in a tight spot.” He shook his head at the two guards who were stuffing their maws with delicacies from White's menu. “Look at them. Totally oblivious to the fact that their time in my employ is fast drawing to a close.”

“I wouldn't be too hard on them, your lordship. Any man can be taken by surprise.”

“But you weren't, were you? You think before you act, unlike those two, who can hardly take a trip to the privy without a ‘by your leave.' Therein lies the difference between a gentleman and the man who by birth and inclination is more than half brute.” The marquis leaned forward. “Sir Jonah, I wonder if you would see your way clear to attending a house party and charity ball at my country estate.”

“I shall have to consult my schedule. When will this event be held?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would leave with Lady Serena's entourage on the morrow,” Lord Wyndleton said. “Since you are a gentleman, I won't insult you by offering you pay, but I would consider it a great personal favor if you were to consent to become my daughter's guard…without her knowledge, of course.”

Steady
on, lad
, Jonah told himself.
Don't jump at the bait too quickly.
“Lady Serena would not thank me for it.”

“She wouldn't have to know, but I would and I would be…appreciative.” He tugged down his gleaming waistcoat. “I have many friends at court. New peers are created every day, but only if one has the connections required to see letters patent to fruition.”

The marquis wanted his help very badly if he was ready to dangle the possibility of a peerage before him.

“That won't be necessary.” Not to mention once Jonah fulfilled his commission to Alcock to seduce Serena, the marquis would no longer have reason to be grateful. “But I am willing to assume responsibility for your daughter's safety.”

Just
not
her
purity.

A niggling ache bloomed in his chest. He hadn't felt it in years, but he recognized the sensation with a start.

It was his conscience.

He tamped it down. He had his own family to protect. His brother's happiness shouldn't be destroyed because Alcock threatened Jonah with the scandal of treason. He steeled himself to his task. The end justified the means.

“Very good, Sharp. Present yourself at my town house before eight o'clock on the morrow. You'll travel with my daughter to Wyndebourne.”

“Lady Serena is an intelligent young woman. She'll wonder at my inclusion in her party.”

The marquis tapped his temple for a moment. “Have you an interest in horseflesh?”

“I keep a fair stable at my country home.”

“In that case, you may put out that you intend to inspect the stock at Wyndebourne with an eye to purchasing a new brood mare. After that, you may as well stay on since I'll see to it that you're invited to the house party and ball.”

“That'll do.” Jonah rose. “Good-bye, milord. If I'm to leave town tomorrow, I have matters to attend today.”

The marquis frowned. “Most people ask to be dismissed from my presence, yet you offer not so much as a ‘by your leave.'”

“No,” Jonah said as he turned to go. “I don't.”

***

Jonah pushed into the Blind Pony with scrapes on his knuckles and a hole in his garrick that was not at the seam. One of the gang of ruffians he'd encountered had brandished a wicked dirk, but with a few deft moves, Jonah had relieved him of it and sent the crew scattering like roaches caught in sudden lamplight. Unfortunately, not before the fellow managed a slash to Jonah's outer coat.

He mentally castigated his friends again for choosing such a sketchy place for their meeting.

Jonah was naturally cat-eyed, but this pub was so dim even he couldn't make out most of the patron's faces. As he scanned the low-ceilinged common room, he saw a hand raised in greeting from the booth in the far corner. As he drew closer, he recognized his friends, Rhys Warrington and Nathaniel Colton, nursing pints of dark, yeasty-smelling ale. A third pint waited on the rough plank table before an empty place.

Jonah slid into it and took a long swig of the drink. It was execrable. “Who ordered this horse piss?”

“It's not so bad once you start on the second one,” Nate said. “You're late, Sharp.”

“And if that frown of yours is any measure, you're obviously out of charity with the whole world,” Rhys observed. “What's wrong?”

“My new coat is ruined thanks to this meeting.” And several of the local ne'er-do-wells were missing several teeth. “Why did you insist on such a spotty location?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures and we didn't want Alcock to be aware that we are joining forces. You should have dressed down for the occasion,” Rhys said. Both he and Nathaniel were disguised in the rags of a common worker—slop trousers and long shirts topped by shapeless capes. A pair of floppy-brimmed hats obscured their faces from all but the most determined observers.

“I am who I am wherever I go,” Jonah said. His friends both rejoiced in a “Lord” before their names. It might be a lark to them to pretend to lesser status. A commoner's lot struck Jonah too close to the bone. “Why should I pretend to a lower station?”

“It might save on your tailor's bill,” Rhys said. “But seriously, what's troubling you?”

“For starters, unlike the pair of you, I haven't finished my commission for Alcock.” Jonah knew he was endangering not only his own family, but his friends' as well by the delay, but the last thing Jonah wanted to admit was that his conscience was keeping him from accelerating his plan to seduce Lady Serena. “Besides, you both cheated.”

That earned him a chuckle. “Alcock didn't specify how we were to keep the ladies from wedding a royal duke,” Rhys said, “though I must confess I didn't intend on marrying Olivia myself at first. What about you, Colton?”

“Farthest thing from my mind. But I admit to being happily ensnared in the parson's mousetrap with my Georgette.” Nate raised his mug. “To our wives.”

Rhys clinked mugs with him while Jonah eyed them both stonily.

“Do not expect me to follow suit.”

Nate shrugged. “Very well, but it's something to consider.”

No, it wasn't. People whispered about his brother Harold, the future viscount, setting his sights too high by courting the earl's daughter. The ton would have a field day if a mere baronet lifted his eyes to the only daughter of a marquis. Not that Jonah gave a tinker's damn about what was said about him, but it galled him that Serena might become fodder for wagging tongues on account of him.

Then
how
in
hell
do
you
intend
to
ruin
her
chances
with
the
royal
duke
without
offering
her
up
to
the
gossip
mill?