Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (14 page)

Whatever brought her mouth so near, he bent that last small distance, compelled to brush his lips against the ones she seemed to be offering.

Just a taste, his body urged. Just a taste, it promised.

And then he was kissing her, light and long and slow—had
he ever kissed a virgin? He didn't think so—long and light and slow while his body hummed and buzzed and pulsed and sparked.

Stilling the hands that burned to explore her, he went on kissing her, letting her decide when to pull away. When, finally, she did so, the effort required to force himself to let her go made his whole body shake.

‘I'd…better leave,' she said, trembling as well.

‘You most certainly should,' he agreed when he could speak.

‘You'll tell me what you learn tomorrow?'

‘Yes. But better not to do so in a dark library at midnight. I am
trying
to become a better man, but flesh and blood can only resist so much.'

She gave him the wicked smile of a temptress. ‘Good,' she said. And walked out.

Greville sat down abruptly, then sprang up, sitting in his tight breeches having become suddenly uncomfortable.

What was he to make of that interlude—and her parting remark? He shook his head, wishing he had more—any—experience with virtuous young maids.

She certainly hadn't seemed affronted. No, his body confirmed, she'd been an enthusiastic participant in the caresses they'd exchanged, melting compliantly against him, her little murmurs of pleasure urging him on.

Had it been a tease? A desire to experience a forbidden thrill?

A mistake?

Or something natural and inevitable for them both, a confirmation that she was drawn to him as powerfully as he was to her, despite everything that should keep them apart.

And would. He mustn't forget that. She was destined to become the wife of a wealthy, powerful peer. He would go into government service or land management, tending important
affairs…but as secretary or agent for a man like the one she would marry, who could offer her more status and wealth than he would ever amass.

Impatiently he brushed that brutal fact from his mind. For now, he would embrace whatever joy life offered, an old Greville principle the new Greville intended to practise.

He'd start by fulfilling her request that he find out all he could at the coastal station. He hoped the information might relieve her anxiety, though he doubted it. In any event, he intended to search out one George Neville and have a pointed chat with him, and discover if Bronning's heir was dabbling in illegal activities that could get him killed, injured or transported.

Where could they safely meet for him to report back to her? If he couldn't keep his hands off her, they had no future even as friends.

Tenderness and awe flooded him again as he recalled the amazing fact that, rather than consider her tenants simply as menials who worked the estate, mere implements like farm tools and draught horses, she saw them as
people
, valuable and worthy of respect. It seemed he'd been teasing her from the first about a sense of superiority she did not possess.

But how was he to have guessed she shared his values, she who had enjoyed from birth every advantage meant to make a lady of her class feel superior and indifferent to those beneath her?

Though he should have seen it; indeed, he was sure, on some level, he had already realised the truth after watching her converse with field hands and shepherds, lace-weavers and farmer's wives. The genuine concern and mutual respect were evident in her interactions with these people who knew her well, whom she had no need to impress. How could he not have tender feelings for such a beautiful, accomplished, compassionate lady?

Now that was a dangerous conclusion, he thought, tossing out a mental sea anchor to bring this suddenly perilous line of reflections to a halt. Resolving to focus instead on what he needed to discover tomorrow in Salter's Bay, Greville headed for his chamber.

B
y late morning of the next day, Amanda had to force herself to continue with her daily routine. Tense and distracted, she went about consulting the housekeeper and the estate agent, supervising maids, footmen and laundresses, though she was too anxious to give these domestic matters her full attention.

She'd not seen George since early yesterday; unable to prevent herself, she'd checked his bed and confirmed it had not been slept in. She'd not seen Mr Anders at breakfast, either, but Sands told her he'd already ridden into town. Oh, that he might discover what was going on and end this painful uncertainty, let her know just what sort of danger was afoot!

As she hurried down the hallway to meet Mrs Pepys in the kitchen, she passed the library door, and her feet stopped of their own accord. An unconscious smile curved her mouth as, in her mind's eye, she pictured Mr Anders within, his handsome profile and tempting lips outlined by candlelight.

A much more complex man than she'd thought upon first meeting, she reflected. He'd begun by teasing—and tempting—her, while he disconcerted her with his unexpected perception.
She'd come to rely on his logical, level-headed approach and his discretion. She thought she'd come to know him well—until last night, when he'd confessed to lapses in judgement and responsibility that should have shocked and disappointed her.

The way he'd gazed directly into her eyes as he revealed his disgraceful past said he
expected
her to be shocked and disappointed. That he expected his revelations would likely cause him to forfeit her good opinion.

He had acted badly. She probably should be more appalled and disapproving. But the very fact that he
did
confess, fully aware of what his honesty could cost him, swayed her in his favour. He had offered no excuses, nor did he try to equivocate about bearing full responsibility for his mistakes.

True, he had failed in his duty, but who among us has not? she thought, recalling her clumsy handling of George and her ignorance of Althea's despair during her mother's final days.

However slow to respond, Mr Anders had eventually recognised his lapses and tried to rectify them. When thrust into truly dire circumstances, he had responded with courage and fortitude. She could think of no reason he would own up to faults that he himself expected would diminish him in her eyes, unless he possessed a character worthy of her respect.

That he trusted her, and valued her enough to offer the truth, impressed and touched her.

His experiences were far different from those of any gentlemen she'd met or was likely to meet in London. Might that be why he fascinated her in a way the much more eligible Lord Trowbridge—whom he'd routed handily at dinner—did not? A unique and different man, moulded by living in a clash between two radically different worlds, one of privilege and one of poverty.

The fact that he was handsome and she was attracted to him probably also factored into her judgement of his worthiness,
she admitted. The powerful physical force that had pulled her to him from the beginning was fully present last night, despite her anxiety. She probably shouldn't have ignored the little voice of caution warning, even as she whispered the invitation, that meeting him alone at midnight wasn't wise. All the while she told herself the situation with George and the free-traders was urgent enough that she would be able to ignore Mr Anders's annoyingly persistent magnetism, she'd known in her heart that wasn't true.

She had thought the initial pull to her intriguing guest would diminish, once she grew accustomed to the novelty of having a handsome, amusing young man about the house. Instead, the fascination seemed only to intensify the longer she knew him and the more she learned about him.

Pulsing just beneath her worry and concern last night had been a wicked thrill at the idea of meeting him alone, an insistent, insidious desire to test him and discover if her effect on him was as powerful as his effect on her. A hunger to taste his mouth she didn't have the will to resist, once opportunity, need and clandestine desire collided.

She'd been driven to discover if one taste would satisfy the urgent need to touch him. Though deep down, she'd known even before she let him—nay, nearly begged him—to kiss her, that the first taste would only make her want more and more and more. The moment his lips touched hers, a sensual haze enveloped her, blocking out every warning of risk and all notion of prudent behaviour.

Thank Heavens, he had the presence of mind
not
to go on kissing her, since it seemed she'd left sense and restraint at the library door. After he moved away from her, she'd quit the library with reluctance, drifting to her chamber still in state of heightened arousal that made her body tingle and her nipples spark as the material of her nightrail slid over her naked flesh.

She'd pictured not soft flannel, but his strong, tanned hands and his warm persuasive mouth moving over her skin.

When she at last drifted into sleep, her dreams were filled with confused images of kissing and touching and more. Sensations so strong she felt a surge of heat and a throbbing between her legs, a tingle in her breasts, recalling them now.

Good sense and restraint had not re-emerged until the cold light of morning. Which should warn her, that with her thoughts, senses and emotions all inclining her towards him, she'd better be as vigilant on her own behalf as she was trying to be on Althea's, lest she end up doing something stupid that would ruin careful plans that had been years in the making.

First and most important, she must resolve not to be alone with him again.

Ignoring the little voice within protesting that decision, Amanda resumed her walk towards the kitchen. Suddenly, Betsy appeared at the far end of the hall.

Stopping short when she spied her mistress, Betsy gave her an agitated wave, obviously entreating Amanda to wait as she rushed towards her. A stab of alarm scattering all other thoughts, Amanda hurried to meet her.

‘What is it? What have you learned?'

‘I slipped away to check on my brother—and found none of the menfolk home. Ma says they left at dawn. There'll be a cargo to land come nightfall, and she fears they plan to settle with Black John once and for good. Billy wouldn't tell me nothing, but the way he looked startled when I asked about Master George, I'm afraid he may be with them, though with Rob Roy or Black John, I don't know. But you might try to keep him here tonight, miss, for I'm guessing whatever happens will come about once the sun goes down.'

‘Thank you, Betsy. I'll do my best to keep my brother at Ashton Grove tonight.'

‘Aye, that would be safest. I just hope all turns out aright!' Wringing her hands, the maid hurried off.

Amanda stood motionless, anger, worry and fear roiling in her gut. Before she could keep George home, she'd have to find him. Surely he would return before the run, to rest and change clothes, if nothing else.

Except…a new worry intervened, dashing her relief. If this cargo were truly that important, George might
not
return, fearing his prolonged absence could cause Papa to raise uncomfortable questions that would make it difficult for him to get away again.

There seemed little doubt now that he was somehow involved in the smuggling. Oh, how could he be so rash and thoughtless as to get tangled up in something potentially disastrous?

Unable at the moment to dispel any of her pressing worries, Amanda forced herself to the kitchen, where she listened in distracted fashion to Mrs Pepys, then continued with her endless list of domestic duties.

But as the hours ticked by, she grew ever more restless and anxious. Though she made several detours through the breakfast and billiard rooms, the library, the gun room, his own chamber, she saw no sign of her brother, nor had Mr Anders yet returned from his trip to Salters Bay.

 

By mid-afternoon, she could stand the waiting no longer. She'd still have enough daylight to ride to town, enquire about her brother at the Sloop and Gull, and return before dark. Once—she refused to let herself think ‘if'—she located him, she'd lure him back to Ashton on some pretext, then use cajolery or outright threats about Papa's delicate health to talk him or shame him out of participating in whatever mischief was brewing on the Saltern Hills.

Anxiety beating a pulse within her, hastily she changed into her riding habit and set out for the stables.

B
oth she and her frisky mare feeling better for a hard gallop, Amanda slowed Vixen to a walk as they mounted the rise where the road to the village curved past the track leading to the ruins of Neville Tour. A feeling uncomfortably like jealousy struck her at the thought that Althea had already taken Mr Anders to what had always been one of her favourite places, the still-impressive ramble of walls around the stone tower where her long-ago ancestor, the Conqueror's lieutenant, had kept watch over the sea and the river far below.

Reaching the heights, she pulled the mare to a halt, waiting for the trailing groom, who'd not been so intent on a gallop, to catch up. As she recalled picnics on the ruins shared with her cousin in summers past, when they giggled together as they spun tales about the valiant knights and ladies fair who had once inhabited this site, a melancholy pang went through her.

Could she break through Althea's resentment over the inadvertent slights of last summer and bring them back into harmony again?

Jenkins having almost reached the crest, she let Vixen proceed around the next bend, then down where the sharply descending road cut deep between the surrounding fields. Suddenly, a small party of men emerged through the thicket from the adjoining field into the roadway. Quickly she jerked Vixen to a halt.

Surprise turned to unease as she surveyed the men facing her. Their leader—tall, black-haired with flashing dark eyes, and dressed in sailor's attire—had two pistols tucked into his belt. Her alarm grew when she realised she recognised neither that man nor his handful of similarly garbed and armed compatriots—several of whom had neckerchiefs pulled up to conceal their faces.

They must be smugglers—few farmers could afford such expensive matched weapons and none would need to hide their identity. But what were they doing here, far above the beach where goods were normally landed, in full daylight?

‘Well, what have we found?' the leader said, interrupting her racing thoughts. ‘What a winsome prize to collect on a chill winter day!'

Wondering uneasily how far behind her Jenkins was, Amanda tried to instil her voice with a calm she didn't feel. ‘Please let me pass, sir. My man and I have important business in town.'

The black-haired bandit made a show of looking from side to side. ‘Man? Don't see no man. But I reckon a pretty lady like you be needing one, eh, boys?' he said, earning a laugh from his followers.

Trying to quell the fear rising queasily in her belly, she replied, ‘My groom is riding just behind; he'll arrive at any minute.'

Grinning, the black-haired man leapt from the saddle and came over to seize Vixen's bridle. ‘I can help you out right now. I've an itch I wouldn't mind scratching.'

One of his men gestured impatiently. ‘Now, Black John? We got business to accomplish.'

‘When I need advice, I'll ask, Kip,' the leader threw over his shoulder. Turning to her, a smile on his crudely handsome face, he said, ‘This lady and I will do some business first.'

At that moment, the leader's name penetrated her fog of alarm and she had to swallow a gasp of horror. This must be the man her maid had spoken of, the one who'd been terrorising the local citizens and had beaten Betsy's brother senseless.

Her pulse hammering with fear, she was frantically considered what to do when a man in farmer's dress, his face also masked, walked over to the smuggling chief. ‘There'll be willing dames at the inn later. Kip's right, we ought to check the goods and be gone.' Leaning closer, he said in an urgent undertone, ‘She's Lord Bronning's daughter.

Her momentary flare of hope was dashed as the smuggler replied, ‘Is she? Even better. I imagine old Lord B. would pay a few golden guineas to get his daughter back…only a little used.'

At that moment, Amanda finally heard the longed-for sound of hooves approaching. It must be Jenkins!

The leader heard it, too, angling his head to look behind her. Taking advantage of his momentary inattention, Amanda slashed her riding crop down on the hand holding her bridle and urged Vixen into motion.

Black John cursed, but rather than releasing his grip, in an unnerving display of strength, he held on. He yanked down sharply to halt the mare before she could move.

After inspecting the blood welling up in the welt on his hand, he looked back up at Amanda, something ugly glittering in his eyes. With a chilling smile, he said, ‘Might have to give you more than a bit of use for that.' Then, as Jenkins appeared over the rise and trotted towards them, he said, ‘Pull him down, men.'

Jenkins put up a strong resistance, but against so many, the result was a foregone conclusion. Pulled, struggling and fighting from the saddle, he ended up with his arms bound behind him, his cries of outrage silenced by a kerchief gag. With her last hope of help subdued, Amanda could only stare back in silence at the ruthless commander.

He gave her another of those emotionless smiles. ‘Come along, little lady. Time to taste your sweetness and determine your worth.'

 

Meanwhile, down in the village of Salters Bay, Greville was hoisting a mug at the Knight and Dragon with gunner's mate Porter. He'd found the old sailor manning the Coastal Brigade office alone, the lieutenant having departed aboard one of the cutters the previous night.

There'd been a rumour of troubles ahead this day, Porter told him. Revenue officers had seen lights flashed from the cliffs across the Exe to Dawlish Warren, where the ferry boatman confirmed more than the usual number of patrons had gathered at the Mount Pleasant Inn, one of the most notorious of smugglers' taverns. Belcher had ordered all available cutters to sea to patrol the coast in anticipation of an attempt to land illicit cargo.

After inviting the old seaman to meet him at the inn, Greville paid a visit to the Sloop and Gull, looking for George Neville. He found that establishment mostly deserted; to his enquiries about any topic remotely related to smuggling, the taciturn proprietor returned replies either guarded or evasive.

On the one hand, he had to smile at the notion that the innkeeper clearly thought he was some sort of covert agent for the crown, intent on sniffing out free-traders. But on the other, the man's suspicious demeanour and reluctance to speak aroused every instinct warning of imminent danger—instincts well honed after months aboard a man-of-war.

After his unproductive meeting with the innkeeper, he'd made for the Knight and Dragon to join Porter for a brew and one of the cook's justly famed meat pasties.

‘Aye, something's amiss,' the gunner confirmed, pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘Hardly any patrons here, at a time when most labourers should be coming in from the fields. And where's the barmaid? Come to think on it, I've not seen the baker's wife, nor butcher's neither, when I bought my meat pie for supper. Seems strange, but not being from these parts, the shopkeepers don't tell me nothing.'

Greville smiled ruefully. ‘I spoke with the innkeeper of the Sloop and Gull, but couldn't get any useful information either.'

Porter nodded. ‘Some of the seamen tell me after the last landing, 'twas a dust-up between the men working for Rob Roy and Black John's crew. Old Jeb, master of the
Lively Lass
, says both villagers and farmers have had their fill of Black John, and that there'll be a full-out battle with him soon.'

Hardly had Porter spoken the words when they heard the noise of a musket discharging. As they jumped up, the innkeeper ran out of the kitchen, tossing down his apron. ‘Must leave you fellows!' he cried as he passed them. ‘It's begun!'

‘What's begun?' Greville asked, the two men following as the proprietor raced to the bar and rummaged between the kegs.

‘Black John said before the landing tonight, he'd be sending his men to town for horses and wagons to transport it,' the innkeeper told him, drawing an old pistol from its hiding place. ‘Said them with hollow walls and storage buildings better be ready to receive his goods, or get a belly full of lead. After Farmer Johnson was shot for refusing to co-operate and Wilson's boy Billy was roughed up, the men hereabouts decided to send all the womenfolk away and fight Black John's men
when they came before the raid.' Catching up a powder horn, flint and a leather pouch of balls, the innkeeper hurried out.

Porter looked at Greville. ‘Won't be like boarding a ship at sea, but it there's a fight brewing, we'd best assist. Have ye any weapons?'

Greville thought of the fine matched pistols and Baker rifle he'd brought home after Waterloo, left at his London lodgings. ‘Not with me.'

‘Come along, then,' Porter urged. ‘Got some stored at the station. Sounds like firing's coming from the churchyard. We'll pick them up the way.'

Porter loped ahead of him, surprisingly quick on his peg leg. Scrambling through a cabinet inside the door as they arrived, he tossed two pistols at Greville and helped himself to two others before leading him towards the churchyard, from which sounds of firing had intensified.

They found the farmers and townsmen sheltered behind the stone wall that encircled the graveyard, armed with an assortment of weapons ranging from muskets and pistols to shovels and scythes. The group of smugglers, approaching from the north, had taken cover behind the few trees that bordered the lane.

‘Got them on the run,' the Sloop and Gull's owner shouted as they joined his position. ‘If ye've weapons to fire, take aim. Some here are already out of balls and powder.'

‘Best get some shots in before the fun's over,' Porter told him.

Fun? With a shudder at his memories of the boarding of the pirate vessel, Greville knelt to level his pistol on the rock edge and fired towards a smuggler in red headscarf. His opponent was forced to pull back his own weapon and duck out of range as Greville's shot went home. Quickly changing pistols, he followed up with a second shot, equally accurate.

As he turned to pick up the first pistol, it was thrust back
at him, already loaded and primed. ‘Got better aim than me, mate,' a man said. ‘I'll keep the sparkers loaded if you'll keep 'em firing.'

So Greville fired on, picking a new target when the first man bolted behind the line of trees. His second quarry soon abandoned the contest as well, taking to his heels down the lane. He was looking for a third when a cheer went up from the churchyard defenders.

‘They be on the run, the cowards,' one man shouted.

‘Aye, they be not so bold when met by men armed to resist them,' another cried.

‘Quick, gather round, men!' the innkeeper of the Sloop and Gull called out. As the scattered group converged from around the churchyard—Miss Neville's brother George among them—the innkeeper said, ‘Jake, take a group to the
Black Prince
moored at the cove, board it and retrieve any goods you find. The rest of you, grab your weapons and come with me. The cargo still ashore is most likely hidden up at Neville Tour. Let's go take back our own!'

While the innkeeper gave orders, Greville went over to grab Neville by the arm. ‘What's this nonsense? Surely you haven't involved yourself in this.'

‘Not with Black John,' the boy said. ‘But what's the harm in helping out Rob Roy? Half the men in the county are here.'

‘Half the men in the county take the risk because they need the income. You've no such excuse—and your father a magistrate! When Lieutenant Belcher sees the noise and smoke coming from the churchyard, he'll send a naval vessel back to investigate. You don't need to be here when they come ashore.'

‘Aye, imagine they're beating to land as we speak,' Porter said. ‘Sound of firing carries a long way across the water.'

‘Hasn't your sister enough to handle with your father ill and the whole household to manage, without worrying about you
getting yourself hung at the crossroads?' Greville demanded. ‘How would Lord Bronning feel if he learned his son had been arrested by preventatives, or shot dead by one of Black John's men? Do you want to have to flee England, ruin your whole future, for a lark?'

‘I'm not stupid,' Neville retorted, an angry flush on his face. ‘I care about my father and sister. I wouldn't have risked staying here, but I couldn't run from the fight like a coward.'

‘You acquitted yourself well, lad,' the Sloop and Gull's proprietor put in. ‘But this gentleman is right; Lord Bronning's son best not be present if we have to tangle with the King's officers. You'll be lord here one day, though, and the men of the Devon coast won't forget how you stood with us against Black John.'

Neville's face flushed again. ‘Thank you, sir.'

With a nod, the innkeeper slung a Baker rifle over his shoulder and stuffed his pockets with powder and balls. ‘We must make all speed, if we are to catch those slimy villains before they can warn their leader and make good their escape.'

Greville turned to George. ‘Tell me you'll see reason and head home now.'

The young man nodded reluctantly. ‘I hate not to finish the fight…but, yes, I'll go back to Ashton Grove.'

‘Good,' Greville said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. ‘There are better ways to occupy your time than worrying your relations. Take it from one who learned that bitter lesson well.'

‘Will you go with the men to Neville Tour?' Porter asked.

Greville remembered the prickly feeling at the back of his neck the day Miss Holton had taken him to the Tour. Had there been smugglers there, hidden and watching them?

Althea also told him it had always been one of the girls' favourite places. A sick feeling gathered in his stomach at the
thought that either of the Ashton Grove ladies might stop at their old haunt and encounter the likes of Black John.

‘Yes, I'll ride with them. Are you coming?'

‘Nay, I'll head to the cove. Been a long time since I've boarded a vessel, cutlass in hand,' Porter said, his face glowing with enthusiasm for the task.