Hero, Come Back (8 page)

Her hands went to her hips. “Why didn’t you do that the first time?”

Jemmy snapped his fingers. “Ah, feminine logic. I fear it was my own pride that prevented me from taking such steps. A man doesn’t like to look infirm in front of a lady.”

“You were worried about my good opinion?” Now it was Miss Smythe’s turn to laugh. “How useful for you that you possess a fair amount of pride, Mr. Reyburn, for it seemed to soften your landing. Both times.” She smiled again, then walked over to the horse, caught up its bridle, and led the docile animal over to the block. Without another word, she climbed into the seat and waited for him.

Capable, sensible, and possessing a sharp tongue. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Esme had found her just for him.

Now that was utter nonsense.

He was about to step up onto the block when a flash of blue caught his eye. There blooming around the foot of it was a cluster of flowers.

Without even thinking, he reached down and plucked a handful of them, then stepped up on the block, caught hold of the cart, and pulled himself into the seat beside her.

It didn’t occur to him that this time his leg never gave him even a twinge of pain.

“For you,” he said as he handed her the impromptu bouquet. “With my sincerest apologies.”

She took his offering, staring down at the flowers for a few seconds before glancing back at him. Then to his amazement, she burst out laughing.

“What is so funny?” he asked as he took up the reins. “Is something wrong with them?” He glanced over at the blossoms now clutched in her hand. They looked perfectly fine to him. Certainly not one of the faultless orchids his father grew, but they’d been offered sincerely.

“Nothing,” she finally said. “They’re perfect.”

How perfect, he just didn’t realize.

Amanda stared down at the flowers and wondered at the irony of his offering.
Forget-me-nots
. He’d given her a bouquet of forget-me-nots, while he’d forgotten her.

Utterly and completely.

But she hadn’t forgotten him. Not once in all these years had a day passed that she hadn’t thought of the only man who deigned to dance with her during her first and only miserable Season.

And now
he
was the one stealing her away from her dire fate. Oh, the absurdity of it plucked at her heart.

Why, he’d even tried to kiss her. She cursed her years at Miss Emery’s school, lessons drilled into her that had prompted her (quite against her wishes) to dodge his attempt. Now she might never have another opportunity.

He tapped the reins, and the horse started off, ambling down the pleasant country drive. When they came to the main road, instead of turning onto it, he crossed it and set off across a barely used track.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He nodded at the grassy lane before them. “This way is less traveled. Though it will take longer, we’re not as likely to run into the magistrate or the constable. Can you imagine the scandal if we were to be tossed into jail together?”

Amanda glanced over at him. His mouth was set in a serious line, but there was a teasing light in his eyes that shocked her. He was flirting with her.

In her entire life, no man had ever flirted with her. Especially not one as rakish as Jemmy Reyburn. She wasn’t too sure what she should do.

Flirt back
, a mischievous voice clamored over her straitlaced thoughts.

No, I shouldn’t,
she told herself, resorting to the same fears and admonitions that had ruled her life for five and twenty years.

No, she couldn’t think like that anymore. This was her adventure, her chance to live the life she’d always fancied…

She laughed aloud at the irony of all of it.

“What is so funny now?” he asked.

“All of this.” She waved her hand at the cart and the countryside. “I’m fleeing a matchmaker.”

“You won’t be laughing if we get caught,” he reminded her.

She glanced up at him. “I assume, Mr. Reyburn, given your rather scandalous reputation, you will endeavor not to be caught. Besides, I suspect you could charm your way past a hangman’s noose, as well as this magistrate who inspires such terror.”

“You hold me in high esteem for someone who purports not to know me.” His brows arched and he paused, as if waiting for her to enlighten him.

Amanda wasn’t about to have him discover the truth, so she said, “You look rather capable.”

“Hardly that. I can’t even climb into a pony cart without a lady’s assistance.Apony cart, mind you.”

“Oh, bother that,” she told him quite emphatically. “There is more to a man’s measure than the carriage he chooses or how he gets into it—or out of it, as the case may be. What makes you admirable is that you’re helping me, despite the obvious risk.” For good measure, she winked at him, as he had done to her earlier.

“I have to admit this is entirely more enjoyable than listening to my mother prattle on all day about heirs and duty.” He tipped his hat back and grinned. “In truth, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

“And why is that?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine the Jemmy Reyburn she remembered not living a day of his life that wasn’t filled with some great series of amusements or lively jests.

“I don’t go to Town anymore, and we don’t have too many visitors out here.”

“And you never married?” she asked before she could stop herself. It was none of her business, truly, but she had to know.

He looked away. “No.”

Never married? She eyed him again. “Whyever not?”

“Because…well, you can see why,” he said, nodding down at his leg. “I was injured in the war.”

“I don’t see why that should have any bearing on the matter,” she told him. Certainly his injuries had been grievous, given the scar on his face and his dependence on his walking stick, but he’d survived, lived through it all. “It isn’t like your life ended. You’re a well respected gentleman. You could do anything you want with your life.”

“Yes, except for the important things.”

“And those would be?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “First of all, I’d have to find someone who doesn’t mind this,” he said, pointing at the jagged scar that ran down the side of his face.

She glanced over at it. “I believe it makes you look piratical.”

“Piratical? Is that a word?” he teased.

“If it isn’t, it is now,” she told him. “What else?”

“What else, what?” he asked, glancing up the lane and not at her, evading her questions with as much caution as if she were the magistrate, his defenses rising up around him like a dark mantle of fear.

Amanda was stunned. He was afraid. Jemmy Reyburn was afraid to live. Outlandish!

“What else keeps you from finding a wife?” she pressed.

Jemmy sucked a deep breath. “For one thing, I can’t dance. Can hardly get up the steps to most ballrooms, for that matter. Can’t ride all that well, either.” He paused for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, not at all. Rather hopeless, don’t you think?”

If she wasn’t mistaken, he was appealing to her to agree with him. To add her stamp of approval to his sorry case.

Amanda wound the strings on her reticule into a tight knot. Up until yesterday she probably would have shared his frustration with life— resolved to live to the end of her days trapped by her own deficiencies, or those that her mother liked to point out whenever the opportunity presented itself—which unfortunately was often. But that was until…until she’d learned the truth of her life, and made the fateful decision to take this enormous gamble at happiness.

A chance of a lifetime to discover the joy she’d longed for so very much. The very enchantment Jemmy seemed determined to toss away, because of what…a bad leg and a rather dashing scar?

Besides, the young man she remembered, the one she’d watched at countless routs and balls, would never have let such a minor infirmity stop him. The Jemmy Reyburn of her heart would have slain such a dragon with a teasing quip and a wink of his devilish blue eyes.

But this man beside her, she barely recognized. She’d read the gossip about him leaving London in the company of his mother’s hired companion—it had been quite a scandal. Later she’d found an account about him being in Spain with Wellington’s army, but how he’d gotten there, she knew not. His injuries she had known about as well, for they had been reported in a copy of her father’s
Gentleman’s Magazine
:

She’d committed the lines to memory, then spent the next year frantically searching the papers for some mention of him. Then after that, she’d waited impatiently through each Season hoping to see some word of his return to Town or even mention of a betrothal. But there hadn’t been a single reference to the elusive Mr. Reyburn in all these years—and now she knew why.

He’d chosen exile from the exacting and critical eyes of society. He was right that he would be viewed with a less discerning eye by some, but surely he knew his character, his charm would leave him in good stead with the people who loved him.

But clearly he didn’t believe that—couldn’t believe it. And instead of pitying him, all that boiled up in her heart, in the tightness of her chest, was anger. White-hot anger. Like nothing she’d ever felt before.

She pressed her lips together, trying to stop the words that sprang forth, but they came rushing out anyway. “Perhaps it is time to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start living again.”

He drew the cart to a quick stop, the horse letting out a neigh of protest. “
Sorry for myself?
You have no idea what I have endured or the pain I suffer.” His face grew red with anger and indignation. “Start living again, indeed! The life I loved is gone. Lost.”

She straightened and mustered every bit of resolve she could manage in the face of his bitterness.
Lost?
He thought his life was lost? He hadn’t the vaguest idea what it meant to lose one’s life.

And while she’d never been so outspoken in her life, with every passing moment she felt an odd courage filling her with strength and resolve.

She sat up straighter and looked him right in the eye. “Then if it is lost, I daresay that is your fault. Because you will hardly find it when you’ve convinced yourself you are better off hiding away in the country than taking advantage of the gifts you still possess.”

J
emmy couldn’t believe the chit’s audacity. If his suspicions were right, she was running away from some sort of trouble, and here she was telling him to toss aside everything he held dear and start his life anew.

Why of all the—

Then a quiet voice whispered up from his heart,
Perhaps you’ve already begun.

He shook his head. It wasn’t the same thing. He was doing what any gentleman would do— assisting a lady in need. It wasn’t the same as what she was suggesting.

Not in the least.

Then he looked into her eyes, at the passion behind her challenge. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt his heart beat, hammering in his chest. Not from struggling up the front steps of Finch Manor but from the thrill of living. Of being in the company of a woman.

Even a vexing one like Miss Smythe.

Gads, he’d spent the past hour flirting with the chit. He hadn’t wooed a woman in so long, he was surprised he still remembered how.

He glanced over at the stubborn tilt of her chin. Lord, if he didn’t know better he thought he should look for a gauntlet tossed between them.

“So what would you have me do?” he asked, almost afraid to hear what this hoyden would suggest.

Her eyes widened, as if she too were surprised by his inquiry. Though if she felt any hesitation, it didn’t last long. “To start with, return to Town,” she said, settling quite comfortably into her role as his guide. “I would advise you to partake in all the pursuits that young men do in London.
All of them
.”

He wondered if she truly understood what that meant. As if holding her in his arms, toppling onto the bed like a pair of lovers hadn’t been enough reminder of what he was missing. But London? Therein lay a life of mistresses and willing widows. Of flirtatious pursuits and passionate nights.

He was loath to admit it, but what she suggested terrified him, right down to his unpolished and scuffed boots.

Go back to Town? To have the eye of Society upon him? What if he fell? Or just stumbled? He’d look the buffoon. And worse than being laughed at, he didn’t want the pitying glances he knew would be directed at him, discreetly of course.

Hadn’t Miss Smythe, once she’d gained a look at his scarred face, scooted out of his grasp with all due haste? Lesson learned there.

No, he’d been foolish to dream of military grandeur in the first place, and now he preferred to exhibit his mislaid and tattered ideals in private.

“I have no desire to go to London,” he told her, picking up the reins and urging the horse forward again.

She laughed. “Liar. Tell me you wouldn’t love to spend an afternoon at Tatt’s? Or off in one of those clubs you men find so satisfying?” She paused for a second. “What does go on at White’s? I would so love to see that infamous betting book.”

“Inside White’s?” He nearly dropped the ribbons. “That is certainly no place for a lady.” Now he was convinced the chit was mad. A young woman inside those hallowed halls? Never!

“But it is for a gentleman?” she argued. “How is that? I’ve never understood the distinction.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his explanation.

“Well…well…” he began. “Oh, demmit, suffice it to say it is not a fit place for you. Or any lady.”

“If I wasn’t going to Brighton, I think I might want to discover the truth for myself.”

That did it for Jemmy. He would see her on the mail coach for Brighton if he had to pay the fare himself and bribe the driver to keep her locked inside the coach until she was at the very edge of the sea, well and good away from White’s.

They continued along the lane in silence and he tried his best to ignore the wicked smile tilting her lips. Gads, what the devil was she imagining with such a look on her face?

“Don’t you want to hear what else I would do?” she offered just then.

“No!” he shot back. “It’s bad enough I’m bound for the Bramley Hollow gallows, but I won’t lose my membership at Brook’s as well.”

“At this pace you’ll have us both dancing to the hangman’s tune.” She laughed and took the reins from him, giving them a confident toss. The horse responded by picking up its pace. “Besides, ’tis a long way to Brighton, and I haven’t the time to tarry.”

He retrieved the ribbons from her grasp, his pride once again piqued. He might not make an elegant leg, but he could still drive a cart. “What has you in such a hurry?”

That stopped her smug stance. “As I said before, the matter is personal.”

So she wasn’t going to confide in him. “If you won’t tell me what is in Brighton,” he said, “I fear I will have to come to my own conclusions.”

“And those would be?”

“A lover.”

She made an inelegant snort. “You and Mrs. Maguire. She thought I was going there to meet a gentleman as well.” She sighed, her fingers twining around her reticule strings again. “That isn’t why I am going to Brighton.”

“A job, perhaps?”

She shook her head.

Jemmy sat back and took another long look at her. “Perhaps you are going to escape a wretched betrothal. I would venture your ne’er-do-well guardian has engaged you to a terrible and hideous old roué and you are running away to escape a disastrous future.”

At this, she laughed again. “That only happens in French romances.”

He shrugged. “I suppose so. But I still think you mean to escape a betrothal.”

She shook her head and then looked away. “Nothing like that, I assure you,” she said softly. “I’ve never been engaged.”

Something about her wistful tone made him pause. “That seems impossible,” he told her. “What is wrong with the men in …in…Where is it that you are from? I’ve forgotten.”

“That’s because I didn’t say,” she replied, once again smiling.

“Ah, yes. Another of your mysterious qualities.”

She peeked up from beneath her bonnet, a blush stealing over her cheeks. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“Immensely,” he told her, and was rewarded with another burst of laughter, sweet and entirely filled with joy. “In fact, I find you quite—”

They rounded a corner and as they did, his words fell to a halt at the sight before them.

A single man stood in the roadway, his hand in the air signaling them to stop. Behind him sat a large carriage filling the way, an obstruction capable of stopping even the most determined criminal.

“Who is that?” she whispered.

“Mr. Holmes. The village constable.”

“And am I to suppose that inside the carriage is this magistrate you hold in such terror?”

Jemmy shook his head. “No. Worse.”

“Worse than the magistrate?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Who could be worse than this unholy magistrate you’ve told me so much about?”

“My mother.”

“Lady Finch?” she gasped.

And from the way the color drained from her once rosy cheeks, he had no doubts she understood exactly what fate had in store for them.

The hangman would have been a far more welcome sight.

As Jemmy had explained hastily to Amanda, it would do them no good to make a run for it, so they had continued toward the barricade as if they were doing nothing more than taking a companionable morning drive through the countryside.

“Jemmy, you’ve found her!” Lady Finch exclaimed as he pulled to a stop before the frowning constable. “Excellent! Esme came by this morning just after you left, and when we arrived at her cottage there was no sign of you or the young lady.” Her brows rose at the significance of such a situation. “But here you are safe and sound—both of you.”

Used as Amanda was to her mother’s critical eye, nothing could have prepared her for Lady Finch’s sharp gaze. Heavens, she’d rather have to go through another tea with Mrs. DrummondBurrell in hopes of receiving vouchers to Almack’s than face this all too discerning inspection.

From Lady Finch’s furrowed brow and none-too- keen expression, Amanda suspected her false front was about to be uncloaked.

“Miss Smythe, I believe it is?” the baroness asked.

Amanda nodded, afraid to breathe even a word before the lady all the
ton
held in an unearthly terror. ’Twas said that even though Lady Finch had come to town only once in the last thirty years, she knew what the king had for breakfast before the man was served his plate.

If anyone could ferret out her true identity, it was Lady Finch.

“Where are your people, gel? Where do you come from?”

At this question, Jemmy turned to her, one of his brows quirked in a quizzical air. She’d denied him these answers, but in the face of the indomitable Lady Finch, they both knew there was no eluding the questions now.

“I’m …I’m…I’m from London,” she offered.

Lady Finch huffed, then leaned over and tapped her cane on the side of her barouche. “Mrs. Radleigh, your assistance please.”

A moment later a woman climbed down from the carriage, notebook in hand and pen at the ready. She was dressed in widow’s weeds, with her face buried within the expanse of her black bonnet, so it was hard to determine how old Mrs. Radleigh was or what she looked like.

Jemmy leaned over and whispered, “My mother’s secretary, poor chit. East India widow. No family to speak of, so Mother took her in.” He shook his head woefully, as if that were the worst fate to befall the lady. “Why, just the other day, the old dragon had her writing a—”

“What is that, James?” his sharp-eared mother called out.

“Nothing, ma’am,” he said in a polite and deferential tone, though Amanda didn’t miss the lingering sparks of mischief in his eyes.

“So, Miss Smythe of London,” Lady Finch began as she elbowed Mr. Holmes out of her path and stalked toward the pony cart. “I will have your parents’ directions in London. Now.”

It was an order that brooked no refusal. “Number Eight, Hanway Street,” she told the lady. She might have to answer the baroness’s questions, but that didn’t mean she had to tell the truth. Besides, it wasn’t a complete lie. It was the house they had let six years ago during her Season, or as her father liked to call it, “that demmed waste of my money.”

Besides, it was the only London address she knew by heart. And it would take even the indomitable Lady Finch some time to determine her falsehood. By then Amanda would be well on her way to Brighton.

“Harrumph! London, you say?” The lady thumped her cane to the hard-packed road. “You haven’t the sound nor the look of a girl brought up in the city, but then again, I daresay you went to school in Bath, where they were able to rid you of those wretched Town affectations.”

Amanda’s mouth opened, despite her very proper Bath education. How had Lady Finch known where she’d gone to school? Why, she might as well ’fess up right this very moment and return home. Return to the dreadful future awaiting her there.

But before she could do anything so drastic, something incredible happened, something so miraculous that it gave her the faith to believe that all was not lost. Not quite yet.

For as Lady Finch turned her attention to Mrs. Radleigh, instructing her hapless secretary to make a notation of the address and check it against her previous correspondence, Jemmy pressed his leg against Amanda’s.

It was such a slight movement, at first she thought he’d just accidentally bumped her, but then as the pressure increased, Amanda slanted a glance up from beneath her bonnet to find him shooting her a quick wink.

“Hang in there, minx,” he whispered. “Her Dragonship is feisty, but my money is on you.” Then he leaned closer, so his lips were but a hair’s breadth from her ear. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’ll see you get to Brighton if I have to take you there myself.”

See her all the way to Brighton?
Why, the very idea was scandalous. Amanda didn’t know what to say. Not that she could have responded with Lady Finch so close at hand.

Nor did it appear that the baroness was paying them any heed, for she was engrossed in dictating a long list to Mrs. Radleigh. “…and you’ll need to send a note to Tunbridge for those fellows who played at Lady Kirkwood’s
soirée
last winter. They were tolerable musicians and should suffice for a betrothal ball.”

“A wha-a-at?” Amanda blurted out.

“Why, your betrothal ball, Miss Smythe,” Lady Finch replied matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Maguire and I decided it is the most expedient means of finding your match. She is of the opinion that time is of the essence, and I”—she glanced from Amanda to her son and then back to Amanda—“share that notion.”

“But I don’t want to be—” Amanda’s protest was cut short by a none-too-gentle jab in the ribs by Jemmy.

He made a great show of floundering with the reins as if he’d dropped them. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Smythe,” he said. “How terribly clumsy of me. What was it you were saying? That you didn’t want my dear mother to go to such bother? I agree. Really, Mother, is a ball entirely necessary?”

“I don’t see that this is any of your concern, Jemmy,” Lady Finch said, her sharp gaze still fixed on Amanda.

Amanda protested despite her aching ribs. “My lady, a ball is not necessary.”

“It most certainly is,” Lady Finch declared. “All the best young men will be invited. Just think, in two nights, you’ll be happily wed.”

“Two nights?”
both she and Jemmy repeated.

Lady Finch cocked an iron brow. “And not a moment too soon, I assume.”

“Uh-hum,” the constable coughed.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. What is it?” she asked.

“My lady, I’ll have to take her into custody.” He coughed again and shuffled his feet. “She was breaking the law. And the young master as well.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Finch declared. “My son was merely bringing Miss Smythe over to Finch Manor so she would have proper accommodations until the match is made.”

The constable narrowed his gaze on Jemmy. “Is that so?”

“Certainly, Holmes,” he told him. “What else would I be doing?”

Amanda had to admire his mettle. He said it as if he meant it.

“Seems a roundabout way, iffin you ask me.” Holmes rubbed his chin and shot a glance around the cart at the lonely track behind them.

Jemmy grinned at the man. “Sir, if you had such a lovely lady at your side, would you take the most direct route?”