Elizabeth Mansfield (24 page)

"An excellent suggestion," the Viscount said dryly.

No one spoke until the butler disappeared into the back hallway. Then Luke turned to his friend. "I hope you'll forgive my curiosity, Ferdie, but I'm puzzled. You've never been noted for pursuing the ladies. Then what in blazes induced you to call on Miss Douglas in the first place?"

Ferdie was perfectly willing to explain. "I saw her riding, you see. She seemed very lovely."

"Yes, she is," Luke agreed. "Very lovely. But you've met lovely ladies before and didn't pursue them."

"I wouldn't have pursued Miss Douglas, either, but then I learned from Taffy about her mathematical mind."

"It was her mathematical
mind
that captured you?"

Ferdie threw Luke a sheepish glance. "Well, you see, I thought, since I have a talent for numbers, too, that she... that we might have something in common."

"And did she agree?" Luke asked with intent interest.

"I don't think so. She said she didn't believe it proper for her to accept social engagements with your friends."

"She said that, did she?" Luke murmured, secretly pleased.

"I assured her you wouldn't object," Ferdie went on, "but she would not be moved." His shoulders suddenly sagged, and he gave Luke a look of glum entreaty. "Tell me, Luke, since you're so much more skilled with females than I—was the girl rejecting me? Am I a fool to persist in this?"

Luke shook his head. "I'm not skilled, Ferdie. I only pretend to be skilled. The fact is that women are as much a mystery to me as to you. I don't know how to advise you."

"Then I suppose I should give it up," Ferdie said, discouraged.

"Blast it all, thinking about women can drive a man mad," Luke exclaimed in a burst of disgust. "Let's forget about her for tonight." He put his arm about the other man's shoulder. "Come on, Ferdie, old fellow, let's take ourselves off to the club, where men are men, and women are not allowed."

THIRTY

When Luke and Ferdie arrived at the club, they both felt too depressed to indulge in gaming. By some unspoken agreement, they went instead into the lounge and sank into the club's deep leather chairs. Each was preoccupied with gloomy thoughts about Jane Douglas. Ferdie was reviewing every word she'd said in their one interview, hoping that somewhere in that recollected conversation he could discover a nugget of encouragement. He did not. Luke tried composing a speech in his mind, a carefully worded defense of his manners and morals, designed to reinstate him in her good graces. He could not seem to find the proper words.

They sat for a long while, just thinking. But thoughts are not action, and action was always more to Luke's liking. "Let's go upstairs," he said to Ferdie, rising purposefully to his feet. "Nothing like a little win at hazard to lift the spirits."

"I never win at hazard," Ferdie grumbled as he followed Luke up the stairs.

As they made their way across the floor, they were hailed by an acquaintance at a round table at which six men were playing commerce. "Come on and join us," the fellow said, indicating a couple of empty chairs.

"I'll play," Ferdie said without enthusiasm and took a seat.

But Luke only waved and walked on. He was looking for Taffy, wondering what had kept his friend from calling for him this evening. He suddenly realized he hadn't seen Taffy for two days. It was unlike Taffy to keep his distance. Luke hoped nothing was wrong with him. It occurred to him that perhaps he should take himself over to Taffy's rooms right now, and check on him. He turned round to retrace his steps, but he found his way blocked by Sir Rodney Moncton. "Ah, Luke," Monk greeted. "Just the man I wanted to meet."

"Really?" Luke said coldly. "That's surprising, considering that the mark I left on your jaw still shows."

Monk fingered the dark bruise on his chin. "Oh, well, I'm not one to hold a grudge. Let bygones be bygones."

"Cut line," Luke muttered impatiently. "What is it you want of me, Monk?"

"A game of picquet. You're the only player here who can give me a good game."

"No, thanks," Luke responded, walking off. "I'm already in debt to you for a bundle. I've no wish to increase it."

Monk fell into step beside him. "Come now, old man, this isn't like you. You were never one to quail at the loss of a thousand or more. What're you afraid of, a scolding from your pretty business manager?"

Luke stopped in his tracks and fixed Monk with an icy stare. "You seem to show an inordinate interest in my pretty business manager."

"Not any more than she shows in me," Monk boasted.

Luke snorted. "Miss Douglas interested in you? As I recall, she showed no interest at all when you called on her the other day."

"That's because you interrupted us at precisely the wrong moment. Have you forgotten how she tended to me when you floored me?"

"Don't fool yourself, old man. That was only human kindness. She won't have anything to do with you. As she told Ferdie Shelford, she's doesn't make social engagements."

"Good God, has Shelford been after her?" He laughed scornfully. "The man's a jackass."

"The man has many qualities that would appeal to a woman of sense," Luke retorted.

"You're not implying," Monk said arrogantly, "that Shelford would be serious competition for me?"

"There is no competition," Luke said, turning and striding toward the stairway. "No woman of sense would consider you at all."

Monk followed him and grasped his arm. "Do you want to bet on it?"

"What?"

"Back up your claim with the ready. Let's wager on it. A hundred guineas that I can convince Jane Douglas to run off with me to Gretna within a week."

Luke pulled his arm loose. "You're out of your mind."

"Try me and see," Monk urged.

Luke laughed. "The only way you could win such a wager would be to dose the lady with laudanum and carry her off unconscious. And knowing you, that's just what you'd do."

"No, I give you my word. She would have to go willingly. A straight, clean bet. Let's put a monkey on it."

"You'd be throwing your five hundred away. Gibraltar would float to sea before Jane Douglas would consider running off—and certainly before running off with such as you."

"A thousand, then. Just think, man! If you win, you'll be square with me."

Luke turned on his heel and walked away again. "I don't bet on certainties," he said over his shoulder.

He was halfway down the stairs when Monk caught up with him again. "All right, double or nothing," he said, breathing heavily. "Two thousand if you win."

Luke couldn't believe his ears. "You're losing your wits, old chap. Two thousand?"

"That's what I said."

Luke scrutinized the man's face closely. "And you'll play completely fair? No lies, no tricks, no coersion?"

"Word of honor," Monk said, lifting his hand in a pledge.

Accepting a challenge was too habitual with Luke. A gamester in the blood, he could not resist. And in this case, the wager was especially tempting. A win was a certainty—everything he knew of Jane proved her character to be too high-principled to ever accept such a proposal. The payout would clear his debt and give him a thousand-pound profit to show his mother. He would pass his probation after all. "All right," he said, "done! But if I discover that you've coerced her in any way, or played one of your vile tricks, I swear I'll come after you and plunge my sword right through your black heart."

The rain was pouring down as Monk left the club, but he paid it no heed. He was having misgivings about his wager. Perhaps he'd been too hasty. Although he was convinced that Jane Douglas had revealed an attraction for him that day he'd called on her, with women one could never be certain. He remembered that when he'd taken her hands, she'd blushed at his invitation, and her hands had trembled in his. And when he'd opened his eyes after Luke had knocked him senseless, and found himself cradled in her arms, his head on her breast, he was sure that he'd captured her. He'd felt, that day, that just a little more persuasion would do the trick.

He'd never had difficulty capturing the hearts of the ladies, except for Dolly, and she had no heart. He would probably have little difficulty with Jane Douglas. After all, she was just a simple country maid, with neither title nor wealth. She would no doubt be overjoyed to find herself under the protection of a man of his stamp... a baronet with a sizable income and a place in the highest society.

But what if he were mistaken? He hadn't intended to wager quite so much on the girl's interest. He couldn't chance a loss of that size. The thousand pounds he'd won from Luke on the stagecoach race would help to pay some of his debts, and another thousand would be a windfall, but if he lost, he'd find himself in the deepest debt of his life. He could not afford to lose. He'd sworn to play it straight, but if the girl made difficulties, he'd have to use persuasion.

With a plot developing in his mind, he changed his direction and went to Dolly's rooms. She was entertaining a gentleman in her bedroom, but when she heard Monk's key in her lock, she excused herself, slipped out of the room and closed the door. "Monk, you numskull," she whispered, "didn't I tell you I would be occupied this evening?"

"I know. I'll only be a moment. I have a favor to ask of you. I made a huge bet with Luke Hammond that I can't afford to lose. I must find a way to lure him from his home tomorrow. For the day. Can you help me? Can you send him a note that you're ill, perhaps, and keep him here?"

"No, he won't come here," Dolly said with a sigh. "I'm sure of that. And even if he did, he wouldn't stay."

"Isn't there some pretense—?"

She shook her head. "Nothing I can think of."

Sir Rodney dropped down on the sofa, discouraged. "It's absolutely necessary that he be out of the way."

The two of them were silent for a long while, their brows knit. "Wait," Dolly said in sudden inspiration, "I have it. Miss Simmons, his old governess. He's very fond of her. What if he should get a message that
she's
ill?"

"His governess, eh?" Monk speculated on the possibilities. "But when he got there and found her well, would he remain with her alFaay?"

"She lives in Ramsgate. By the time he got there and returned, the afternoon would be gone."

Monk's whole aspect brightened. With a grin, he leaned down, lifted Dolly in his arms, and kissed her soundly. "You are a prize, my love, a prize. I don't know how to thank you."

"I do," she said, squirming out of his hold and preparing to return to her gentleman friend. "Just be sure you give me ten percent of your winnings."

Luke headed home from the club filled with misgivings about the wager, too. As he walked home through the downpour he began to doubt his judgment. Had he let Monk make an ass of him again? Did the fellow have some filthy trick up his sleeve?

But no, he assured himself, it wouldn't matter if he did. Monk would be dealing with Jane, not with him. He, Luke, might be an ass, but Jane was too upright and clever to be taken in by one of Monk's ploys.

He had nothing at all to worry about.

THIRTY-ONE

Jane sat huddled into the corner of the Viscount's coach, feeling guilty. The fact was that she'd stolen Luke Hammond's coach-and-four.

In her need to get to Devon to find her sister, she'd made a liar of herself, of Mr. Parks, of Joseph, of Meggie, and of Hodgkins, the groom, who, as a favor to her, was at this moment sitting up on the box driving the Viscount's best team through the black night. Stealing a coach and four horses was a heinous crime, especially heinous to someone who'd never in her entire life performed a dishonest act.

Of course, she fully intended to return the stolen property before daylight. As Mr. Parks had explained to Mr. Hodgkins, his lordship would not require the coach tonight, and, since the equipage and the horses would be back in the stable by morning, he'd never know that they'd been borrowed. Hodgkins had resisted at first, but he'd eventually taken pity on her (probably because he'd never seen her so greatly agitated) and agreed to go, but he was not happy about it. If anything went wrong, it would mean the end of his employment, or worse.

It was a hastily arranged plan. Jane and Mr. Parks had devised it. Mr. Parks would inform anyone who asked for Jane that she'd retired for the night. Meanwhile, while she and Mr. Parks made arrangements with the groom, Joseph would return to Taffy Fitzgerald's rooms and learn from his man the exact location of his mother's house. Meggie would pack a small repast. The trip, they estimated, would take three hours in each direction. With another hour to extricate Adela from the Fitzgerald domicile, they should be back in London by three or four in the morning. By sunup everything would be back in place, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Thus far, things were working out as planned. But Jane was miserable. She did not like dishonesty. She did not like driving through the night in a stolen coach. She did not like the prospect of dealing with her headstrong sister. She did not like the fact that the moon, which had lit the road for the first hour of the drive, was now obscured by clouds. This entire venture was abhorent to her.
Dash it, Adela,
she said to herself,
the moment I clap eyes on you, I'm going to wring your blasted neck!

By the time they arrived at the Fitzgerald estate, a cold rain was falling. As the carriage turned onto the curved drive, Jane peered out at the house. There was not a light in a window, but the two carriage lamps revealed an old castle-like stone mansion with an impressive pediment over a wide doorway. It was not as large as Kettering, but a mansion nevertheless. Jane jumped out as soon as the carriage drew up. Disregarding the rain, she ran up the steps and pounded on the door. She would be rudely wakening everyone within, but this was not a time to concern herself with the niceties.

After several moments, during which she got a good soaking, the door creaked open. An elderly man—the butler, Jane assumed—peered out at her. He was wearing a robe and nightcap and carrying a candle. "An' who might you be, wakin' the dead at such an hour?" he asked in a hoarse, sleepy voice.