The Reluctant Reformer (4 page)

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a manor house. Sitting up, Maggie winced at the pain the action sent through her now sensitive wrists and peered out the window, frowning at the immense structure. It was large—huge—obviously the home of a wealthy man, but the stone building looked awkward. It crouched rather than rose into the sky, and it cast dark shadows on the surrounding estate.

Frowning at the sight, Maggie tensed as the carriage rocked; someone was alighting from the driver's bench. She wasn't terribly surprised when the door opened and revealed the caped and hatted man who had been in the carriage with her when she had first awoken—not that she could see much more of him now than she had while he was in the dark carriage. While the sky was beginning to lighten, the coach now stood in the shadow of the mansion. She did, however, recognize the man's voice as he murmured an apology and leaned in toward her.

She understood the reason behind the polite apology as he quickly scooped her off the cushioned seat and out of the carriage. In the next moment she found herself hoisted like a sack of potatoes, the sudden impact of his shoulder in her stomach knocking the wind out of Maggie and effectively eliminating any possibility of her
shrieking for help. Not that there appeared to be anyone about to offer that help, she saw with dismay. Turning her head to glance frantically one way, then the other, Maggie found there was no one in view but for the man presently carting her toward the estate's front door. Well, there was the driver of the coach, too, but one glimpse of the man's amused expression suggested that he would be of no assistance.

Deciding she had best save her strength, Maggie remained still in her undignified position, silently promising herself she would throttle her captor at the first opportunity for this humiliating ride. Then her attention was taken up by the interior of the house they entered. A marble floor flashed by beneath her head, the legs of a narrow table, too, then steps.

Maggie held her breath and remained as still as she could; if the last thing she wanted was to throw off her captor's balance as he ascended these stairs. She breathed a small sigh of relief once the steps were replaced by the flat floor of a wide hallway; then she was carted through a door and into and across a darkened room. The Kidnapper's stride slowed, his hands shifted, and he bent forward, dropping Maggie indelicately on a soft surface in the still-dark room before turning and exiting.

It took her a moment to realize that the soft surface was a bed. Once she did, though, Maggie quickly tried to scramble off of it—forgetting that her ankles were bound together. She ended up crashing to her knees on the floor just as light flooded in around her. Lifting her head, she watched warily as her captor reentered with a taper from the hallway, which he used to set a fire going in the room's hearth. Then he carried the taper to the
table on the opposite side of the bed from her, the one nearest the door. He set it down carefully, then turned to eye her where she knelt huddled against the bed.

She returned his inspection, but was quite startled by the look of him. Her kidnapper was tall, with long, muscular legs and broader-than-average shoulders. His hair was dark and feathered, with gray at the temples, giving him a distinguished air. His face was handsome and strong, yet looked slightly hard, as if he didn't smile much.

The man gazed at her silently for a moment, taking in her wary state, then rubbed one hand wearily over the back of his neck and glanced fretfully around. “I am James Huttledon,” he announced abruptly. When Maggie stared back blankly, he added, “I was a friend of your brother's. We fought side by side through most of the war.”

Maggie felt surprise at this news, and some of her wariness dissipated as she made the connection in her head. Gerald had written to her often, long letters detailing his comrades, the battles they fought, the camaraderie they shared. There had been one man he had mentioned a great deal, and from his letters Maggie knew Gerald had respected and looked up to him. He had called the paragon James once or twice, but had most often referred to him as—“Ramsey,” she said a bit breathlessly.

“Yes. I am Lord Ramsey. Your brother died saving my life, and his last request to me was that I see after you.”

Maggie was silent for a moment. She had known Gerald died bravely—his commanding officer had written the details of his leaping in front of a musket ball to
save a comrade. However, she had never known whom he had died to save; the name had been left out. Now she stared at the man who had kidnapped her, the man her brother had saved, and felt only bitter disappointment. Gerald had died in this man's place?

She couldn't help her suddenly tight expression or the tone of her voice as she snapped, “I see. Well, forgive me for pointing out something you may not wish to hear, my lord, but I doubt very much if smothering, tying up, or kidnapping me is what Gerald had in mind.”

Lord Ramsey grimaced, but after a moment said sternly, “It was not what I expected to be doing when I agreed. However, I doubt your brother expected you to get up to the things you have done.”

Maggie stiffened at his tone, indignant. “And just what is
that
supposed to mean?”

His gaze slid downward, drawing her attention to the fact that by half rising, she had revealed a good portion of the flimsy red attire she had on beneath her cape, as well as all the things it did not hide. Flushing bright pink at the view she was presenting, Maggie again hunched forward against the bed. Lord Ramsey's gaze immediately returned to her face. Feeling the mask she wore cold against her hot blush, Maggie felt an instant need to explain. Clearing her throat, she said, “This is just a disguise. I could hardly move about in there without one, could I?”

“Dear God, no!” the man agreed with sharp horror. Becoming stern again, he added, “You should not have been there at all. A lady of your standing has no business being in such a place, or working at such a…” When
he paused, obviously in search of a suitable description, Maggie interrupted.

“Yes, well…I do have to earn a living, my lord. Someone must pay for the upkeep of that mausoleum my brother left me, keep the servants paid and fed.” She pointed it out staunchly, but that only seemed to make the man's lips tighten with further displeasure.

Turning away, Lord Ramsey moved toward the door. “I am sure you did not rest much in the carriage. As for myself, I have not slept at all. We shall discuss alternate sources of income after we have both rested and refreshed ourselves.”

“Just a moment!” Maggie cried in alarm. Her kidnapper stopped and looked back at her wearily, one brow arched in question. “My hands.” She held them above the bed as if to show him the bindings. He hesitated, his eyes shifting warily to her face; then he shrugged and started back toward her.

“I suppose it will not hurt to untie you. There is nowhere for you to run, anyway. My servants are quite loyal to me.” Moving around the side of the bed, Lord Ramsey dropped onto his haunches beside her and waited for her to turn so that he could reach her hands. When she hesitated, remaining positioned the way she was, the bed hiding her sheer gown, a crooked smile quirked his lips. “Suddenly shy? Is that not a bit like stirring the pot after the stew is burnt?”

Maggie felt her face flush but held her pose. He may well have seen all while she was unconscious in the carriage, but she was not offering any exhibitions now. Appearing to realize that, Lord Ramsey shifted to kneel closer to her and reached for her hands. Biting her lip,
Maggie tried to ignore the way his shoulder and hip rubbed against hers as he worked on her bonds, and the musky scent of him as it wafted up to her nose. He smelled of fine brandy and expensive cigars—a scent she had always found pleasantly drifting around her father and brother when they had just returned from the clubs. She idly wondered if that had been where he was before kidnapping her.

“There we are,” he said. “Now your ankles.” He turned slightly, shifting back a bit so that she could turn and slide her legs out for him, but Maggie remained as she was, unwilling to risk giving him an indecent view.

“I-I can manage those, I think,” she murmured huskily, avoiding his gaze. She sensed his hesitation, but after a moment he stood and moved away.

“Ring the bell by the bed when you wake, and a maid shall bring you something more comfortable to wear.” The bedroom door closed behind him on Lord Ramsey's last word, and Maggie slowly relaxed, realizing only then how tense she had been. His close proximity had caused her to tighten up like a snail retreating into its shell.

Shaking her head at her behavior, she shifted her position and reached for her ankles, untying them much slower than he had done. But then, her hands were somewhat numb from their confinement, and they gave her some trouble with the task.

Sighing in relief as the rope finally fell away, Maggie rose carefully and perched on the edge of the bed, then took stock of her prison. While the exterior of this estate had appeared stark and imposing, there was nothing of that inside. This bedroom was a cheerful light blue,
its furnishings and coverings all nearly new, and expensive. Hardly reflective of its owner at all.

Grimacing to herself at the thought, Maggie glanced toward the door, briefly considering trying to leave, but just as quickly changed her mind. She could already hear the house stirring. There would be servants everywhere in no time. Besides, she had no way to return to town, or really even any idea which way London was from here. Nay, there was little sense in rushing off into the wilds of the country, especially dressed as she was.

Then, too, it didn't appear as if she were under any real threat here. If anything, it sounded as if Lord Ramsey were seriously trying to live up to his promise to her brother to keep her from harm. And apparently he felt her escapades under the name of G. W. Clark were too risky. Which they were, she had to admit. In fact, the whole situation had grown more and more precarious of late, for her readers were demanding more and more titillating articles. That was the reason she had risked entering the brothel—something she never would have considered ere circumstances had become so desperate, even with the heavy veil she had worn to hide her face.

Where was that veil now? Probably still sitting on the settee in Madame Dubarry's private drawing room. Maggie had taken it off after interviewing the last of Agatha's girls so that she and the madam might relax over tea. Both of them had quite forgotten it in the rush to Maisey's room. Which, in itself, showed the dangers of rushing about without planning. Nay, Maggie was best off sticking it out until she could convince Lord Ramsey to return her to her home, or think of a safe way to escape there on her own.

No doubt Lord Ramsey would offer her some sort of agreement when they met for their discussion later—a position as nanny to his children or some such thing. Yes, he looked the sort to be married with children. He was certainly old enough. Of course, she would have to refuse. Even if she dismissed the ignominy of being known to work for a living, no position as governess could pay as much as the
Daily Express
. No, when Lord Ramsey made the offer, she would be forced to regretfully refuse—then somehow had to convince him to return her to town.

Having settled the matter in her mind, Maggie stood and removed her cape and mask. She would have liked to remove her gown as well; it was terribly itchy. She didn't know if it was the material or a lack of cleanliness on Maisey's part, but the garment was insufferable. Unfortunately she had nothing to change into at the moment, and as indecent as the gown was, it was unthinkable to sleep in the nude.

Making a face, she crawled under the covers and settled herself in the center of the bed, unsurprised as she was overtaken by a yawn. Now that she believed she wasn't in any real danger, exhaustion was beginning to set in. This had been an incredibly eventful night, what with one thing after another. All she really wanted to do was rest.

Stifling yet another yawn, she glanced toward the bedroom door and frowned. It was all well and good that Lord Ramsey claimed a desire to honor her brother's last wishes, but really, she realized, she had no guarantee that such was the case. Actually, she had no guarantee he was even who he claimed. It was rather
trusting of her to take the man's word for it like that. Naive and stupid, even.

“Oh, bother!” she muttered. Pushing the covers aside, she crawled out of bed once more.

 

“Here you are, milord.”

James turned from a contemplation of the fire in his library hearth and smiled a vague thank-you at an unusually rumpled Webster. His butler at Ramsey came forward with a tray bearing warmed milk with whiskey—James's own personal remedy for an inability to sleep. It was something James had not thought he would need as he rode here; he had nearly fallen asleep several times on the hard bench during the journey. Crowch, his driver, had actually nudged him a time or two to wake him before he could tumble right off.

But that had been before he had carried Margaret Wentworth to the blue room and dropped her on the bed. That was before he had seen her in the candlelight, on her knees, her golden hair tumbled about her heart-shaped face, her soft green eyes glinting out from behind that damned red mask that lent such a seductive air of mystery to her and seemed to emphasize how sweet and soft were her lips. All that had been enough to give a man ideas. It had put images in his head: images of Margaret kneeling at his feet, her cape open to reveal all that blasted gown she wore revealed…her hands untied, reaching for the waist of his trousers, her glossy lips twisting as she pulled those trousers slowly down and…

Dear God! What was the matter with him?
James gave his head a shake, relieved when the erotic imaginings dissolved. He could hardly believe he had been standing
there fantasizing such things about a woman he was supposed to be helping. Hell, he could hardly believe he had been fantasizing at all. He just wasn't the sort to waste time on carnal pursuits. He prided himself on being a more intellectual sort. Oh, he had kept a mistress or two through the years, but it had always been more as a physical outlet—a sort of exercise, if you will—rather than from any real passion. In fact, James had always regarded the task as not dissimilar to boxing: Good for keeping the heart fit and the body in shape and a skill every man should have. And as with boxing, he had always considered the movements rather mechanical. In boxing it was jab, feint, uppercut as opposed to kiss, strip, fondle, and so on. Both were a step-by-step process leading to the final round and the ringing of the bell…so to speak.