The Counterfeit Gentleman (13 page)

Bethia blinked rapidly, trying desperately to hold back
the tears that were filling her eyes.

“And it is likewise only in your imagination that I am a
gentleman,” he added. “No matter how you try to pretend
otherwise, I do not belong in your world.”

Bethia’s jaw quivered despite her best efforts to control
it, and she said, “My world contains someone who is trying
his best to kill me. How long do you think I shall stay alive in my world if you refuse to join me there?”

Digory looked at the resolutely squared shoulders and
stiff back that were turned to him, and he cursed him
self for being a fool. “I apologize, my dear,” he said.

“For what?” Miss Pepperell asked with a watery sniffle.

Giving her his handkerchief, he said, “For every one of
my numerous and assorted shortcomings.”

She managed to wipe away all trace of tears before she turned back to face him. “I do not think that you belong in
this world of simple fishermen who turn out to be smugglers and of thieves who turn out to be honest farm hands
any more than I do.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, surprised that she had seen the truth after such a brief acquaintance.

“The other smugglers call one another by their given
names,” she said, “but you they call Mr. Rendel.”

“Such is the fate of most gently born bastards,” he said,
pushing back his chair and striding over to the window.
Peering out into the darkness, he explained, “We discover
quite early in life that we are neither fish nor fowl. We are too well born to be part of the peasantry, yet the stigma of
our birth keeps us from entering the world of our fathers.”

“Who is your father?” she asked, coming up behind him and leaning against him as if needing the comfort he could
not give her. “Or is it a secret?” she asked when he did not immediately reply.

“In London, perhaps, but not in Cornwall. I bear too
marked a resemblance to my father, the Earl of Black
stone.” He turned to face her, and she backed a few steps
away.

“But I have seen him in London,” she said. “Surely he is
much too young to be your father.”

“My father, the fifth earl, died eight years ago, so it is
unlikely that you ever met him. The man you saw was
doubtless my half-brother, Geoffrey, who was the second
son but the first legitimate child born to my father, and who
therefore became the sixth earl.”

“My aunt warned me about Lord Blackstone. In fact, she ordered me to have nothing to do with him. The one time I
saw him, though, he did not look particularly depraved, and
I made sure my aunt was only being her usual snobbish
self.”

“So much innocence is dangerous,” Digory said, feeling
much older than his years. “My brother’s nickname was
Lord Blackheart. Did you never hear him called that?”

Eyeing him warily, Miss Pepperell admitted that she had.
“But they call David Lord Helston ‘Devil Helston,’ and he
is not at all wicked,” she added.

“Be that as it may, Lord Blackstone’s heart was indeed
blackened by sin,” Digory said. “You must take my word
for it that no matter how appalling the stories were that you
may have heard, he was in truth much more wicked, more
evil, than even your aunt would have believed it possible
for a man to be.”

“Why do you keep saying he
was?
Is he also deceased?”

How had they gotten on this subject? Digory wondered. And how could he answer the question she had asked in all
innocence? What could he say?

He could hardly tell her the truth—that he had paid men
to abduct his own half-brother. Nor could he admit that on the way to Morocco, where the ship’s captain had orders to
sell the wicked earl into slavery, My Lord Blackheart had
escaped his captors by jumping overboard.

“They say my brother fled to the Continent to avoid his
debtors,” Digory said finally. “In truth, I have no idea
whether he lives or not.”

It was amazing how one could, without actually lying, bend the truth so that it became unrecognizable. The gos
sips in London did in fact say that the earl had fled to the
Continent. And without seeing the body, Digory could not
absolutely swear that his half-brother was dead. But there
was no doubt in Digory’s mind that the sixth Earl of Blackstone had drowned when he chose to take his chances with
the sea.

Moving closer, Miss Pepperell laid her hands on his
chest. “Does no one then call you by your given name?”

Digory looked down into brown eyes that were soft with concern. “My aunt did before she died, and my half-sister,
Lady Cassie, does, but she is married now and lives on an estate near Wimbledon.”

“Speaking of marriage,” Miss Pepperell said, a faint
blush creeping up her cheeks, “since you and I are going to
be married, might I not have leave to use your Christian
name?”

He had to clear his throat before he could answer her. “I was baptized Digory.”

“Digory,” she said, and his name had never sounded so sweet to his ears. “An uncommon name for an uncommon man.”

“Actually it is quite common in Cornwall, and not alto
gether uncommon in Devon.”

“Digory,” she repeated, reaching up to run her fingers
lightly along his jaw. “I rather like it.”

And he rather liked what she was doing to him. He had spent many an evening with accomplished courtesans, but
none of his companions of the night had been as seductive
as this inexperienced young lady.

He knew full well that it was up to him to control the explosive situation they were in. Miss Pepperell was too inno
cent to know what she was doing—to have any idea how
her touch was affecting him. It was clearly his responsibil
ity to end this dangerous game she was playing all un
awares, and he resolved to do just that quite soon
...
in
another minute or two...

“I give you leave to use my Christian name also.”

“After we are married will be soon enough for that,” he said, catching both her wandering hands in his and holding them still against his chest.

“I do not wish to wait,” she said, and the bold look in her
eyes dared him to admit that what they were talking about
had nothing whatever to do with given names.

For a moment he was tempted to forgo the role of gentle
man and take what she was so freely offering, but then her gaze faltered, and he knew she was only bluffing—that she had no real idea what stakes she was playing for.

“It is time for you to go to bed, Bethia,” he said, turning
down the invitation in her eyes even while he gave in to her request that he use her Christian name. “We must make an
early start in the morning.”

It was as gentle a rebuff as he could manage, but the
flash of pain in her eyes told him he had not been gentle
enough. All he could do was curse the black-hearted villain
who had torn her out of her safe world and thrust her into the world of assassins ... and baseborn smugglers.

* * * *

As tired as she was, Bethia found she could not fall
asleep. Every voice she heard rumbling below sounded like
Jacky-boy, every thump and thud sounded like a fist strik
ing bone, and despite the fire in the fireplace, the darkness seemed to ooze through the room like fog, making it difficult for her to breathe.

When she shut her eyes, it was even worse, for the
events that filled her mind were more real than what she
could see with her eyes open. All she could think about
were men’s hands forcing her head back, pouring wine down her throat—wine that choked her and gagged her.
She could not forget the futility of her desperate efforts to
persuade the two men not to kill her, nor the overwhelming
realization that she was totally helpless. And then the feel
of the water closing over her head, and her desperate need
to breathe.

And always and again the memory of the villains’ bodies
sprawled on the beach as motionless as dummies stuffed
with straw, their life’s blood staining the sand red before
the waves washed it clean again.

As if that were not bad enough, the bed she was lying on
was scarcely more satisfactory than were her thoughts, and no matter how she tossed and turned, she could not find a comfortable position.

It was totally incomprehensible to her that despite the
fact a chair must by its very nature make a most disagree
able bed, her companion was sleeping soundly by the fire.

Or was he sleeping? Perhaps he, too, was finding it diffi
cult to forget the events of the last three days.

“Digory,” she whispered softly, and before she could say
more, he was on his feet. In the faint light provided by the fire, she could see the glint of steel in his hand.

It was not at all the response she had expected.

“What’s wrong?” His low voice was harsh and demanding, and she felt like a total fool.

“I cannot sleep.”

“You woke me up to tell me that?” he asked, and the
knife disappeared from his hand.

“I did not mean to wake you,” she said apologetically. “I
only meant to determine if you were sleeping or not.”

“Well, I am awake now, so what do you want?”

“I told you, I cannot sleep.”

With a yawn that was halfway to being a moan, he
dragged his chair across the room and settled himself near
her bed. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked with a
second mighty yawn.

“Perhaps you could fetch me a glass of warm milk?”

“I doubt the menu in the Spotted Boar runs to such tame
fare,” he replied with a smile in his voice. “And since we
already know you have no head for brandy, I shall not ven
ture below to inquire further.”

Nor did she want him to leave her, not even for a few
minutes. Reaching out, she touched his arm and felt immensely comforted. “It is the nightmares,” she confessed.
“Every time I close my eyes, it all comes back to me.”

The darkness made it much easier for her to confess her
fears, which seemed childishly silly by daylight. “When
those men had me in that rowboat, I was so sure that I was going to die—that I had but a few minutes left to live. And
doubtless for that very reason life seems more precious to
me now than ever before.”

“I know.” Digory reached over and took her hand in both
of his.

“How can you know?” she said, shivering despite the
warm quilts tucked around her. “How can anyone know
who has not been in my position—who has not looked his
own death in the face?”

There was a pause, and then he said, “I have also seen
his face. Three times in my life I have known that my own
death was inevitable and mere seconds away. Yet here I
am, still among the living.”

“Will you tell me about... about
...”
She found she
could not utter the words. That he might have died before
he met her was too horrible to contemplate.

“I have never talked of such things with anyone before,”
he said, “but yes, some day I will relate to you all my dar
ing exploits.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because my adventures are not the stuff of which bedtime stories are made,” he replied.

“Did you have nightmares afterward? After you were
quite safe?”

“They grew less frequent with time.”

“How much time?” she asked, her voice rising. “How
many sleepless nights must pass before I can forget? Is
there nothing that will help?”

“Whenever I am unable to sleep, I find it effective to
think back to the days of my childhood and to recall as
many pleasant memories as I can.” Her companion’s voice
was quiet and calm, and his words had a soothing effect on
her nerves.

Taking deep breaths, Bethia tried to focus her thoughts
on another time, to remember the happy years she had
spent growing up in her grandfather’s house, but it was as if
her past had been erased. “My childhood is not real to me
now. The events of the last few days keep crowding all
other memories out of my head.”

Digory could not only hear the despair and incipient hys
teria in Bethia’s voice, but he could also feel her hand trembling with remembered fear.