The Counterfeit Gentleman (2 page)

“Get on with it and throw her in before someone hears
her.”

“The devil take her! She’s clinging worse than a barna
cle.”

All at once the girl stopped struggling, as if she had finally realized it was a human hand holding her ankle, and a
moment later her full weight came down on Digory, pushing him deep under water.

Precious seconds were lost before he could untangle
himself from her skirts, but after what seemed an eternity,
he had one arm firmly around her waist. His other hand was covering her mouth and nose, and his legs were straining to
get them both as far away as possible from the murderers’
boat before he was forced to come up for air.

The girl was a dead weight in his arms, which made his
task easier while at the same time making him afraid he
was wasting his efforts. She might already have inhaled a
fatal amount of seawater, but if he came up too soon, the
fog would not conceal them adequately and both of them
would be at the mercy of the paid assassins, who did not
appear to be the slightest bit merciful.

When his lungs could stand it no longer, Digory kicked his way to the surface, praying that the fog would conceal them. The girl’s head lolled on his shoulder, but he was re
lieved to hear her taking great gulps of air through her
mouth. He pressed one finger to her lips, and she nodded weakly, indicating she knew what he meant, but it was a
moment before she was able to moderate her gasping.

“She must’ve sank like a stone. Strange.”

Jacky-boy’s voice sounded too close for comfort, and it
brought back too many memories of other occasions when
Digory had escaped from dangerous situations with his skin
intact—more or less.

Very gently, so as not to make the slightest sound, he began kicking with his feet, not actually swimming, just
trying to put a bit more room between the two of them and the men in the boat.

“What’s strange about it? She couldn’t swim, and be
sides, no one could stay afloat long wearing as many
clothes as she had on.”

To be sure, the girl whose head was now supported
against his shoulder was decidedly prettier than any of Digory’s former comrades had been. The water seemed to give
her dark brown hair a life of its own, and it swirled caress
ingly around his neck.

“Still and all, I’d’ve expected her to thrash around at
least a little,” Jacky-boy said, sounding quite aggrieved.
“There’s no sport in it this way.”

Digory wondered idly if the two men in the boat in
cluded swimming among their skills. He would have found
it amusing to see how long they thrashed around before
sinking, but his first priority must be to get this girl ashore.
And even when she was safe, he needed the two men alive
so that he could persuade them to reveal the name of the
man who’d hired them.

“She’s drowned, you lummox, and that’s all there is to it.
And tomorrow, just as soon as we ‘discover’ the body, we
can collect the rest of our money. Now get us back to
shore.”

The girl had her arms around Digory’s neck now, and
their bodies were so close in the water, his legs kept bump
ing hers with every kick. Looking down, he saw she had
dark brown eyes, which appeared too large for her face.
The salt water made her lashes cling together, making her
look as if she’d been crying.

But he’d heard her in the other boat, and she had not
been weeping piteously. She must have known how slim
her chances were, and yet she had bargained for her life,
her resolution never wavering.

Finally, Digory heard the welcome sound of oars rattling
in the oarlocks, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiv
ing that today of all days he had followed his whim and
gone fishing. It was appalling that a person’s life could de
pend on such a chance event.

Gradually, the noise of the other boat became fainter and fainter until nothing could be heard but the cry of a lone sea
gull.

“Who are you?” a dulcet voice whispered in Digory’s
ear.

“My name is Rendel. I am a
...”
He hesitated briefly,
then said simply, “I was fishing when I first heard you.”

“You have a boat? Oh, thank goodness.”

“I am afraid it can do us little good now since our
chances of finding it in this fog are remote. But that is no
great matter. We will simply swim to shore and leave my boat to follow in its own good time.”

“Oh.”

A wealth of disappointment was in that one word, but
there was little that Digory could say to reassure her. “I am a strong swimmer, and I have lived in this area all my life,
so I am quite knowledgeable about the currents and the
tides. And if I had to guess, I would estimate that we are
only a half mile or so from shore.”

“But how can you tell which way to go in this fog?” the
girl asked, and he was pleased that she was managing to
keep almost all the fear out of her voice. She was no cow
ard, this one, and in spirit, although not in looks, she re
minded him of his half-sister, Cassie.

“I was born with a natural sense of direction, and the tide
is with us, so we have nothing to worry about,” he said
without adding that if the tide turned before they were safely on shore, even he might not be a strong enough
swimmer to save them.

But he had no intention of saying anything that would shatter the girl’s self-composure, which he suspected was
hard won. “We will make better progress if you could dispense with your petticoats.”

If she had been a girl from the village, he would have bid
her take off her skirt also, but such a demand would not do
for a lady, especially when their situation was not yet dire.

“I shall do my best to untie them,” she said, and while
she struggled to undo the knots, he did his best to keep both their heads above the water.

Finally, she gave up her efforts. Once more wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered, “I am afraid the saltwater has made the knots too tight.”

“Then I shall have to cut them,” Digory murmured, sliding his hands up under her skirt.

She gasped and stiffened in his arms, but she neither
jerked away nor cried out.

Moments later she was free of most of the sodden fabric,
and pulling her around behind him, Digory showed her how
to hang onto his shoulders so that he could have both his
arms and legs free. Then keeping his head above water, he
began an easy sort of breaststroke. It was slow, but he
could maintain it for hours without tiring.

The girl was silent at first, and then she whispered,
“There is something over there in the fog—to our left and a
bit ahead of us.”

Digory’s crew had frequently told him he had the luck of
the devil, and apparently they spoke the truth, for his boat
was bobbing peacefully about fifteen feet away.

Changing direction, he moved to intercept it. “If you can
hang on to the gunwales while I get in, then I can help you climb in.”

A few minutes later they were safely on board, and Dig
ory unshipped the oars and began to row with a steady
rhythm toward Carwithian Cove, the only place he could be
sure the kidnappers would not go to—at least not until the
next day.

His thoughts were less easy to control, and when he
looked at his passenger, his pulse began pounding in his
ears.

Her arms were covered with gooseflesh, and her lips
were quite blue, and she should not have been in the least
bit appealing. Perhaps it was because her wet garments dis
guised none of the feminine curves of her body and legs, or
because he had just been in intimate contact with her that
he felt an unexpected surge of desire.

Even knowing she was too far above his station for him
to have such thoughts did not prevent him from wanting to
take her in his arms and warm her in the way men have
warmed women down through the centuries.

If only the circumstances had been different—if only she
were a village girl and not a wellborn heiress—he would have cheerfully stolen a few moments of pleasure.

“I have always disapproved of ladies who dampened
their dresses,” Miss Pepperell said, beginning to shiver violently. “Now I am even more inclined to think them fools, for in truth I am finding it most uncomfortable.”

He could tell the very moment when she realized how
her remark had served merely to direct his attention to her
womanly curves, because hot color rose swiftly to her
cheeks, and she immediately lowered her eyes.

“My jacket is folded up there behind you—feel free to
make use of it,” he said.

Of course it was possible that it was not her own words, but rather the carnal desire she had seen in his eyes that had
shattered her composure.

Once she was adequately clothed, she regained her poise,
which only made his own wayward thoughts seem more
despicable in comparison.

Looking up, she met his eyes squarely and said calmly,
“I am afraid that I do not know the proper thing to say
when someone saves your life. All I can say is thank you.”

“You needn’t thank me,” he said curtly, annoyed with
where his thoughts had led him—and angry with himself
for not being able to ignore the tension between them. “But
I would appreciate some explanation of what is going forward. Since it is obvious that your recent companions were not interested in catching fish this morning, could you perhaps tell me how you came to be with them in that boat?”

“It is a long story, and it is hard to know where to
begin.” She paused, then continued, “My father was Baron
Pepperell. I do not remember much about him because he
died when I was three years old. A distant cousin inherited both the title and the estate, so my mother and I went to live
with her father. She passed away less than a year later,
leaving my grandfather to raise me. And he died two years
ago in August, leaving me in the care of Aunt Euphemia,
Lady Clovyle, that is. She is my father’s sister.”

Although Miss Pepperell did not say so directly, it was
obvious from her voice that she had been much more at
tached to her grandfather than to her aunt.

“Is she the only relative you have still living?”

“On my father’s side. On my mother’s side, however, I
have cousins galore, but only three who are likely to be im
plicated in the plot you have just spoiled. Or I should say,
any one of the three had a motive for hiring those two
men.”

“Three cousins, each with a motive,” Digory said, stop
ping rowing for a moment so that he could listen for the
sound of the buoy marking the reefs by Penistone Head.
Reassured by its bass voice that he was still on the proper course, he resumed both his rowing and his questioning.

“I suppose money is involved somewhere in your story.”

“A great deal of money,” Miss Pepperell said, her voice bleak. “My grandfather, James Granville, was the younger
son of the Earl of Granwood. In his youth grandfather quar
reled with his father and older brother and left home. Years
later he came back to England with a fortune in his pocket
and married my grandmother, who was herself the granddaughter of a duke.

“They had only one child, my mother, who had but one
child, me, which means I am the sole heiress to my grand
father’s estate. Unless, of course, I die unmarried before I
reach the age of one and twenty, in which case Wilbur,
Gervase, and Inigo Harcourt will all inherit equal shares.
They are the sons of my grandfather’s only sister, who mar
ried the Reverend Percival Harcourt.” She was quiet for a
long moment, then she added what was only too obvious.
“Apparently one of them has decided that a third part of my
grandfather’s estate is worth committing murder for.”

Digory considered what she had told him. “It would
seem to me that the easiest way to circumvent whichever
cousin is plotting against you would be to marry. Surely
you have had ample suitors?”