Nine
“If you will note the attention to detail, Miss Stanholte, you will see the hand of a master. Such exquisite color and light.”
Obediently studying the framed painting, Cassie stifled a traitorous yawn. It was not that she did not appreciate the wondrous collection of Van Dykes and Rubens that lined the vast gallery. She possessed a great love for art and greatly envied Lady Pembroke. But while she could imagine nothing more pleasurable than spending an evening, or even several evenings, gazing upon the masterpieces, she found the monotone lecture by Lord Westwood unbearably tedious.
For the better part of an hour Cassie had endured the painfully obvious comments and patronizing manner that marked the young gentleman as a first-rate bore. Indeed, she had barely crossed the threshold when he had pounced upon her and all but hauled her up the stairs to the gallery. Now she found it decidedly difficult to conjure a means of ridding herself of his possessive presence.
“Yes, quite lovely,” she murmured, desperately glancing toward the staircase in the hope of relief.
What she found instead was the tall, sinfully handsome Lord Mumford leaning with indolent ease against the carved walnut balustrade. She felt her heart falter as she encountered the amused blue gaze. Really, he was the most disgraceful rogue.
So why then did her knees feel weak and her hands sweaty?
Easily holding her wide gaze, Lord Mumford slowly straightened and strolled across the French Savonnerie carpet. Cassie stiffened, wondering how long he had been watching her.
Unaware of her distraction Lord Westwood continued his droning lecture. “Of course, the Flemish artists are renowned for their—”
“Ah, there you are, Westwood,” Luke interrupted as he halted next to Cassie.
The younger man’s features settled in petulant lines as he regarded the elegant gentleman attired in a black fitted coat and silver gray waistcoat.
“Mumford.”
“Lady Pembroke is requesting your presence in the front salon.”
Lord Westwood frowned. “Please inform Lady Pembroke that I will be with her directly.”
“I believe she wishes to discuss the placement of the candelabra you requested for your reading.”
There was nothing in his bland tone or expression to imply his amusement over the evening’s entertainment, but Lord Westwood instinctively stiffened.
“Very well.” He turned to Cassie. “Miss Stanholte, will you accompany me?”
Cassie was in a decided quandary. She sternly assured herself that she could not possibly desire to spend a moment alone with Lord Mumford. But she could not deny a reprehensible desire to be free of Lord Westwood.
It was Lord Mumford who took command of the situation.
“Really, Westwood, it is devilish bad ton to monopolize poor Miss Stanholte,” he drawled. “Besides, I have promised to show her Aunt Sophia’s watercolors.”
Lord Westwood opened his mouth to argue; then realizing that he would only appear a fool by squabbling with the older man in public, he offered Cassie a stiff bow.
“I shall return in a moment, my dear.”
Cassie watched the younger gentleman as he moved toward the staircase before she turned to face Lord Mumford with her familiar exasperation.
“Must you order everyone about, my lord?”
Thoroughly unrepentant, Luke firmly tucked her arm beneath his own and began leading her further along the gallery.
“Be honest, Miss Stanholte. I just performed a most timely service for you.”
Well aware that more than one gaze was trained in their direction, Cassie had little choice but to follow his lead.
“I cannot think how depriving me of a charming companion is providing me with a service.”
“Charming?” Luke gave a low chuckle. “Is that why your eyes were glazed over and you were so desperately attempting to stifle a yawn?”
A sudden, wholly renegade flare of humor melted her annoyance. This gentleman knew her far too well. Attempting to quash the unworthy sentiment, Cassie conjured a prim expression.
“Lord Westwood is a very agreeable gentleman.”
“He is also an insufferable bore.”
“My lord—”
“Now, now, Miss Stanholte,” he interrupted with a glint in the blue eyes. “I believe we should call a cease-fire. We would not wish to cause undue gossip.” He neatly pulled her to a halt in front of a pastel watercolor in a shallow alcove. “What do you think of my aunt’s gathering?”
She paused, then allowed a rueful smile to curve her mouth. Perhaps he was right. A cease-fire would make a pleasant change.
“It is quite . . . elegant,” she at last responded. “I feel quite a dowd among so many beautiful ladies.”
The blue eyes darkened. “You must know that you are by far the most lovely lady present.”
A most absurd flutter of confusion brought a flush to her cheeks. With a silent chastisement of her missish behavior, she swiftly turned toward the painting of the Grand Canal.
“Are these the watercolors you wished to show me?”
With a smooth motion Luke moved to lean against the paneling, his expression strangely intent.
“Tell me of your home in Devonshire,” he abruptly commanded.
She glanced at him in surprise. “What do you wish to know?”
“You have risked your reputation, even your life, to save your estate. It obviously means a great deal to you.”
A great deal? Cassie gave a slow shake of her head. It was everything.
“It was all I had left after my parents died,” she said, the very simplicity of her words revealing the stark sense of loss that still haunted her.
“Still, it must be a great deal of responsibility.”
She shrugged. “It is a responsibility that I enjoy. What could be more satisfying than watching the seasons turn or seeing the tenants bring in the harvest?” Her expression unknowingly softened as she thought of the rolling meadows of her estate. “Every day is like a new beginning.”
He appeared oddly captivated by her obvious sincerity. “And you do not find it tedious?”
Uncertain why he should be interested in her attachment to Stanholte Estate, Cassie replied with blunt honesty.
“How could I? There is the house to manage, the accounts to keep, the repairs on the farms, and of course the tenants to see to. And my horses . . .” Abruptly realizing she was revealing far more of herself than she intended, Cassie came to a self-conscious halt. “I am sorry. You cannot be interested.”
“But I am,” he firmly insisted, his gaze locked on her wide eyes as if he were delving into her heart. “I only wish I possessed your obvious devotion to my own estate. You will be shocked to know that I have quite often considered it a burden rather than a blessing.”
Absurdly, Cassie felt a pang of sympathy for the exasperating lord, despite the fact he must be the most envied gentleman in England. She was well aware she had been fortunate to be raised by parents who trained her to respect and care for the land. Lord Mumford, in contrast, had been forced to use his wits and swift intelligence to ensure his livelihood. It was little wonder he found the notion of a demanding estate rather dull. Still, he appeared sincere in his regret that he did not possess her dedication.
“Perhaps that is because you were not raised on the estate,” she suggested in soft tones. “In time you will discover that it has become a part of you.”
His slow smile seemed to steal her very breath. “I certainly hope you are correct, Miss Stanholte. Despite my sometimes flippant manner, I should like to be a good earl.”
Quite impulsively she laid a hand upon his arm. “Then I am sure you will be.”
His hand swiftly rose to cover hers with delicious warmth.
“Miss Stanholte—”
Oblivious to all but each other, neither Cassie nor Lord Mumford noted the dark-haired beauty who determinedly marched in their direction. It was only when the lady boldly latched on to Lord Mumford’s arm, effectively knocking Cassie aside, that they realized their brief moment of privacy was at an end.
“Lord Mumford, what a delight,” the woman purred, overtly ignoring the slender lady at his side.
Stifling an unexplainable stab of disappointment, Cassie regarded the intruder with a narrowed gaze.
She was certainly beautiful, Cassie reluctantly acknowledged. Attired in a deep burgundy gown trimmed with Brussels lace, she possessed a sophistication that Cassie could only envy. Her own gown was a more modest satin of pale green, trimmed with velvet ribbons and seed pearls.
Of course, a spiteful voice whispered in the back of her mind, the cut of the older lady’s gown would have made the most daring courtesan proud. A wrong move or a sudden sneeze might very well reveal the full bounty of her charms.
Appearing surprisingly immune to the lovely vision clinging to his arm, Lord Mumford peered down his nose in a bored manner.
“Lady Bross. May I introduce Miss Stanholte?”
Lady Bross made no effort to acknowledge the introduction and instead pressed herself even closer to the large male form.
Shameless jade, Cassie seethed.
“I missed you at Lady Montelle’s ball,” she said, batting her long lashes.
“Did you?”
“I was quite certain you would attend.”
Lord Mumford shrugged. “I have been rather occupied.”
“It was a dreadful squeeze, of course. Still, I had hoped we might have the occasion to further our acquaintance.” She coyly lowered her gaze. “We had such a lovely time at the Stanford hunting party.”
Lord Mumford’s smile was without humor. “Oh, did you attend? I had quite forgotten.”
Cassie smothered a gasp at the direct cut, but Lady Bross was clearly made of sterner stuff. Smoothing the lines of anger, she gave an arch laugh.
“What a tease you are, my lord. You could not have forgotten our strolls through the garden nor our morning rides.”
“My memory is unfortunately not what it once was,” Luke drawled.
Clearly immune to insult, Lady Bross relentlessly plunged on.
“Will you be traveling with the prince to Brighton this year?”
“I possess a decided aversion to the sea, Lady Bross.” Plucking the clinging hand from his arm, Lord Mumford performed a formal bow. “Please excuse us.”
Ignoring the unflattering color that crawled beneath the woman’s pale skin, Luke turned to clasp Cassie’s elbow and led her firmly away. Neither spoke as he steered her toward the staircase. For some reason, Cassie was decidedly annoyed with the forward Lady Bross. At last she turned her gaze to study his rigid profile.
“She is quite . . . persistent. Are all ladies of fashion so forward?”
His stern countenance softened into the more familiar amusement at her tart tone. Shifting his head, he met her disapproving gaze.
“You cannot credit what I am forced to endure, Miss Stanholte,” he lightly teased. “There is no end to the female wiles. Indeed, during the house party Lady Bross mentioned I was forced to bolt my bedchamber door each night simply to protect my virtue.”
With an effort, she smothered her absurd annoyance. What did she care if every female in London tossed herself at his feet?
“Of course, the Irresistible Earl,” she retorted in dry tones.
“Irresistible indeed. I have even had desperate maidens go so far as to throw themselves beneath my carriage. ”
Her lips quivered. “They must be desperate indeed.”
The astonishing blue gaze lingered on her full mouth. “Desperate and quite uncommonly beautiful.”
Once again she felt that oddly breathless tingle of excitement. But as before, the intimate moment was swiftly interrupted. On this occasion, it was by a uniformed footman who carried a folded note in his hand.
“Lord Mumford, this was delivered for you.”
“Thank you.”
With a frown, Luke accepted the note, flicking it open and swiftly reading the few sentences. His brows rose before he was lifting his head to meet her curious gaze.
“I fear I must take my leave.”
Cassie was startled by the abrupt announcement. She completely forgot she should be relieved that he would not be around to bother her.
“But Lord Westwood’s poetry . . .”
He flashed her a boyish grin. “Yes, I am quite desolate to be denied such a wondrous treat, but duty calls.”
Her expression became suspicious. “Has something occurred?”
“I shall explain all tomorrow.”
So there was something afoot.
“Lord Mumford.”
“Yes?”
“Take me with you,” she pleaded softly.
“Do not be a goose,” he chided in firm tones. “Not only would both of our reputations be in shreds, but I have no intention of allowing you to place yourself in any further danger.”
Her lips thinned. “You have no right—”
With familiar ease, he lifted her fingers to his mouth.
“Until tomorrow.”
Unwilling to create a scene, Cassie could only watch as the elegant form moved to the sweeping staircase. Then she sighed in frustration.
It was all utterly unfair, she decided, completely ignoring the horrible frights she had received at the hands of Toby. Not only had Lord Mumford simply disappeared, but he had trapped her into a dreary evening of Lord Westwood’s poetry. At the very least, he should have offered to take her along.
It was one more sin to add to a very long list.
* * *
Tossing the reins of his mount to the waiting servant, Luke regarded the entrance of the discreet gaming club with a hint of puzzlement.
The note had commanded him to make an appearance at the club as swiftly as possible. It had not been signed, but the small x at the bottom was Biddles’s personal code. Luke could only presume his friend had managed to unearth new information regarding Miss Stanholte.
A reluctant smile tugged at his firm mouth as he entered the narrow stairs to the gaming rooms. It had been a decided wrench to leave Miss Stanholte’s side. Not even the hideous spectacle of Lord Westwood’s poetry had dulled the pleasure of being in her company.
How brilliantly her eyes had gleamed when she had spoken of her home. He had found himself almost envious. Could a mere gentleman ever stir such devotion in her remote heart?
It was a thought he quickly suppressed.
To be fascinated by a young maiden’s eyes was a blatant warning to a confirmed bachelor. He would be a fool not to flee before it was too late.
With an unconscious shrug, Luke turned his attention to the smoke-filled room. Several tables were scattered throughout the room, with a handful of gentlemen seated at each one. Further on, a sideboard of refreshments was situated along one wall, as well as an open door that led to an even more smoke-filled room.
Luke raised his quizzing glass to survey the crowd, unsurprised to discover a number of hardened gamesters as well as a fair sprinkling of fresh-faced bucks too naive to realize their danger.
He smiled with rueful regret as a servant approached him.
“Lord Mumford, welcome,” he murmured.
“Is Lord Bidwell within?”
“Yes, my lord. This way.”
Crossing the tiled floor, the servant led him through the far door and toward a small table nearly hidden in the shadows. Taking the seat offered, Luke regarded the slender gentleman attired in a bright yellow coat.
“Dashing as always, Biddles.”
“Ah, Mumford, how kind of you to join me so swiftly.” Lord Bidwell waved the hovering servant away with a languid hand.
“I presume it is important?”
“Do you recognize the gentlemen at the far table?”
Shifting so that he could covertly study the four gentlemen engaged in a heated game of vingt-et-un, Luke gave a slow nod.
“Trandel, Halvern, Lutty and”—his gaze narrowed at a plump, red-headed gentleman attired in a gaudy striped coat—“a mushroom upstart with a loathsome taste in coats.”
Biddles took a sip of brandy. “An upstart who is referred to as Herbie.”
“Ah ...” Luke’s interest instantly sharpened.
“If he is like most gentlemen, he will spend another hour drinking too heavily and losing the larger share of his quarterly allowance. Then he will seek the comfort of his mistress’s arms.”
Luke settled himself more comfortably in the wing chair.
“The elusive Nell.”
“Precisely.”
“I once again bow to your skill.” Luke reached forward to pour himself a healthy measure of brandy and lifted the crystal glass in a silent tribute. “How did you discover he would be here?”
Biddles accepted his tribute with a roguish grin. “Lutty makes an effort to keep a close watch on the greenhorns with a bit of the ready to lay on a wager. He recalled winning a tidy sum from a gent by the name of Herbie several weeks ago.” He nodded his head in the direction of the table. “I requested he invite him back for another fleecing. Lutty was only too pleased to comply.”
“Now we can only hope that this is the Herbie we search for.”
Stretching out his long legs, Luke prepared for a long wait. The evening was still young, and having watched Lutty in action, Luke was aware he used exquisite care not to startle his quarry into flight. It often took hours before the hapless victim realized the extent of his losses.
Luke, however, underestimated Herbie’s stunning lack of skill with cards, as well as his ability to be goaded into placing a ludicrous wager on a hopeless cause. Within a remarkably short time Herbie was signing a large stack of notes and staggering to his feet.
Luke and Biddles remained seated until the gentleman had lurched out of the room. Then bowing toward the smug Lutty, they carefully followed behind.
With casual ease they tracked the unsteady Herbie down the stairs and into the street. They waited in the shadows until he had retrieved his mount and urged him away from the club. Then they gathered their own horses and plodded over the cobblestones at a measured pace. Although Herbie had appeared sunk in shocked misery over his disastrous evening, Luke wanted to take no chances.
They traveled through several neighborhoods before at last halting at a small establishment. Luke and Biddles remained carefully hidden behind a shabbily trimmed hedge as Herbie moved up the path and pounded on the door. It took but a moment for a housekeeper to pull open the door.
“Welcome, sir. I shall inform Miss Maggert you have arrived.”
Luke and Biddles exchanged a glance at the familiar name. This was the actress they had wanted.
“Tell her not to keep me waiting,” Herbie growled as he entered and slammed the door behind him.
On the point of dismounting to find a more favorable view of the house, Luke was halted as a side door opened to reveal a young lady with dark curls and a tall gentleman with a familiar scar down one cheek. Luke stiffened as he heard Biddles give a low hiss.
He longed to charge through the hedge and choke a confession from the evil man. Or perhaps beat it out of him. It was only the knowledge that, as satisfying as it might be to wrap his hands about the villain’s neck, it would not cure Miss Stanholte’s troubles that kept him huddled in secret as Nell glanced nervously about her.
“You must go,” she whispered as she wrapped a silk robe closer around her full body.
“Do not play me for a fool, Nell,” he rasped as he glared down at her white face.
“I have told you I do not know why Miss Stanholte should want me.”
“I think you do.”
“No, please—”
Her words were cut off as a riding crop was pressed to her throat.
“Have you contacted her?” the gentleman demanded.
Her harsh breathing filled the night air. “No.”
“But you have contacted Liza.”
“I only warned her to be careful,” she pleaded.
The man laughed with cold cruelty. “It is you that should be careful, Nell. I will not tolerate any interference with my plans.”
“You don’t frighten me,” the actress breathed with surprising courage.
“Then you are a fool.” With lightning speed, the riding crop was replaced by a gloved hand that curved around her throat. “I could break you as easily as a twig.”
Both Luke and Biddles prepared to leap forward. They could not stand aside and watch the madman abuse the helpless actress.
“Let me go,” Nell gasped, her eyes wide with fright.
“Heed my warning, Nell.” As swiftly as he had attacked, the gentleman stepped back. “It would be a shocking waste for such a lovely wench to be found floating in the Thames.”
Giving a choked cry, Nell turned and rushed back into the house. At the same moment, the man sprinted toward the back of the house and disappeared.
Luke instinctively prepared to follow when common sense warned it would be futile. The streets were far too deserted not to alert a man on his guard that he was being followed. Once again Luke would be forced to bide his time. But at least they had discovered Nell.
Turning, he discovered Biddles calmly returning his gun to his pocket.
“That gentleman would be greatly improved with a sword lodged through his bowels,” he murmured.
“My thoughts as well.” Luke grimaced. “Come. There is little more we can do tonight.”