The Counterfeit Gentleman (5 page)

But everything about him—the way he walked, the way
he talked, the way he took charge—made it impossible to believe that he was a man accustomed to taking orders. In
deed, anyone could see in his eyes that he was used to giv
ing orders ... and that he would also expect to have them
obeyed.

Bethia knew her aunt would be scandalized at the mere
thought of a strange man preparing her niece’s bath, and
she would doubtless have a seizure if she knew that Bethia
was alone in a cottage with no maid or chaperone in atten
dance.

Last Monday Bethia herself would have found it un
thinkable, but she was not the same person she had been
three days ago. Being only moments away from death and then being given back her life made her look at ordinary,
everyday things in an entirely different manner—made her
reappraise things she had previously taken for granted.

Mr. Rendel was still apparently concerned with propri
ety, however, because as soon as her bath was ready, with soap and washcloth and towel laid out for her use, he strung a rope between two hooks and then draped a quilt over the line to give her some privacy.

That was not actually needed, because with only a brief
word of assurance that he would be close at hand if she needed him, he disappeared into the room at the opposite
end of the cottage, shutting the connecting door firmly be
hind him.

Setting down her cup, Bethia stripped off her garments
and with a sigh of pure pleasure, stepped into the tub and
sat down.

She managed to shampoo and rinse her hair without
spilling too much water on the hearthstones, and indeed she
encountered no problem until she was done bathing and
had dried herself off. Then she discovered that the efficient
Mr. Rendel had forgotten to provide her with any dry cloth
ing.

Her first thought was to call him, but then it occurred to
her that he himself might not be done with his cold bath.
And she knew that however much she might think herself
ready to dispense with propriety, she was not quite willing
to summon him to her side while she was naked.

Beginning to shiver again despite the nearby fire, she decided that the only thing to do was use what was already at hand, namely the quilt.

With a heartfelt prayer that her host would not choose
that precise moment to return, she pulled the quilt from its line and with much fumbling, managed to wrap it around herself. Then hobbling as best she could, she dragged the upholstered chair closer to the fire and sat down to wait for her host to return.

But she could not stay seated long. The smell of the
spicy drink was too tantalizing, and she decided to finish
her drink. Freeing one hand from the confines of the quilt,
she retrieved her cup and took another sip and again felt the
delightful warm glow begin to spread through her limbs,
heating her veins to the tips of her toes and the ends of her fingers.

A few moments later she began feeling the slightest bit
light-headed, which surprised her until she thought about
what she had just been through. In the last few hours she’d
frequently had the unpleasant sensation that events were
proceeding at too fast a pace to be fully comprehended. She
had felt herself being dragged along at breakneck speed, as if she were in a curricle behind a pair of runaway horses.

Was it any wonder that there were moments, like the
present one, when she could not be completely, absolutely,
positively certain that she was awake? That she was not
still caught up in a laudanum-induced nightmare?

Well, perhaps nightmare was not the proper term for the
situation she now found herself in, but it was in truth a
most peculiar dream.

To begin with, Mr. Rendel had appeared quite simply out
of nowhere. Indeed, at first she had thought he was some
horrible monster rising up from the deep to wrap a tentacle
around her ankle and pull her down to the bottom of the
ocean.

Some might scoff at the idea of a sea monster, but was
the truth any more plausible? That by a sheer fluke of luck
a fisherman had happened to be near where her abductors
intended to drown her—a fisherman who had not only
heard her cries, but who had also felt compelled to do all he
could to save her? Even though by so doing he had risked
his own life?

It was almost easier to believe that he had been conjured
up by her desperate longing for someone to help her. Or
perhaps it was the gods on Mount Olympus who had heard her pleas and sent one of their own to save her?

Bethia raised the cup to her lips and discovered it was
empty. The bowl was right beside her chair, but she quickly
discovered that if she held the cup in one hand and the ladle
in the other, then there was no hand left to keep the quilt
from sliding down around her waist.

In the end she solved her dilemma by simply dipping the
cup itself into the brew. It was really a delicious concoc
tion, and it seemed much more efficacious than tea, which
was her aunt’s remedy in times of crises both large and
small.

This brought to mind the question of whether Aunt Euphemia was correct. There was a possibility, Bethia had to admit, that she was actually suffering from disordered mental faculties. It could be that everything she thought had ac
tually happened—the abduction, the murder plot, the
rescue—was nothing more than the wild fantasies of a de
ranged mind. Perhaps even now, when she thought she was
sitting here by a fire, drinking a most delicious punch, it
could be that she was in actuality ranting and raving behind
bars in Bedlam.

Unfortunately, Mr. Rendel was not making it easy for
her to believe she was awake. She had done her best to con
vince herself that he was no figment of her imagination—
that he was exactly who he claimed to be: a fisherman who had fortuitously been in the proper place to hear her cries.

Sitting there all cozy and warm, assuaging her thirst with a most delightful concoction, she brooded over the contradictions in Mr. Rendel’s person, in his home, and in his ac
tions.

All things considered, was it any wonder that she was
not completely sure she was awake and not dreaming?

After all, if this were not merely a dream, would she be naked—except for the quilt, which was even now surrepti
tiously trying to slide off her left shoulder—would she be
naked in the presence of a man? Not even her grandfather
would have felt comfortable sitting beside her when she
was dressed—or rather, undressed—as she was.

Perhaps before Mr. Rendel rejoined her, she should put
on her gown, although as wet as it was, it was quite an im
modest garment—less modest, in fact, than the quilt.
Which in turn brought up the most interesting question of
whether or not modesty was in any way logical.

Taking another sip, Bethia considered the question of
propriety. It would be highly improper, she knew beyond a doubt, for Mr. Rendel to see her in her nightgown, although that garment actually covered more of her than most of her
walking dresses did. But her dresses were designed to be
seen, and her nightgown was not designed to be worn outside the privacy of her own bedroom.

Which was all very well and good, but that did not an
swer the question of the quilt, which was neither a garment
designed for public view nor a garment designed to be
worn in private. A quilt was not actually a garment at all, in
fact, which thus left unanswered the question of whether or
not she was properly attired.

A quilt was neither a dress nor a gown, so she was defi
nitely not clothed ... but on the other hand, she was also
not naked, because she was completely covered—at least
all but one of her arms was—by the quilt.

Perhaps her host, who seemed to know about everything
else, had read sufficient philosophy to answer the question
of whether or not a lady was dressed or undressed if all she
was wearing was a quilt.

She heard the door behind her opening, then Mr. Rendel asked, “Are you dressed?”

Stifling a giggle, she answered in her most solemn voice,
“That, I am afraid, is a question I am not at all capable of
answering.”

After a pause she heard his footsteps crossing the room.
Swiveling around to greet him, Bethia was so amazed by
his transformation, she lost all power of speech and almost lost her grip on the quilt as well.

Gone were the rough homespun shirt and breeches of a
fisherman. Dressed now in a black jacket, burgundy waist
coat, and fawn-colored unmentionables, Mr. Rendel was in
every way the proper country gentleman. To be sure, the
jacket he wore could not completely disguise the extraordi
nary breadth of his shoulders or the powerful muscles of his
arms.

And despite his sartorial elegance, she could not quite
forget what this man had looked like in his shirt sleeves and
wet breeches. When they had emerged from the water, she
should have modestly averted her eyes. Why she had not
done so was a question she did not feel up to coping with at this moment.

“Are you warm enough?”

“I am quite warm, thank you,” she murmured, lowering
her glance lest he read her thoughts, which were becoming even more brazenly improper. She felt heat rise to her face, and she could only pray he would think her high color was due to her proximity to the fire.

One other thing she had noticed even while trying to pre
tend that it did not matter one way or another—it would
seem that Mr. Rendel lived here quite alone.

Not only did he lack a maid or a housekeeper, but he seemed to be in other ways similarly unencumbered. No
wife or children had greeted him upon his return, and there
was no sign that any woman shared his abode. There was
no loom or spinning wheel, no butter churn, no wifely shawls hanging on the hooks by the door...

“Your hair is not drying fast enough,” he said, coming up behind her and taking a strand between his fingers.

At the touch of his hand, her heart gave a lurch, then
speeded up of its own accord.

“If you wish, I can brush it dry for you.”

For a brief moment modesty warred with desire. Despite
the thoroughly improper path her thoughts had been
wandering down, she knew quite clearly where her duty
lay.

It was, of course, totally out of the question to allow any man—other than a husband, which she did not at the mo
ment have—to touch her so intimately. Especially since she
had not even settled the question of whether or not a quilt
constituted proper attire for an unmarried lady visiting a
bachelor in his abode, which in and of itself was a totally unforgivable breech of decorum. Quite scandalous, in fact.

And despite knowing that even
thinking
about allowing
Mr. Rendel to brush her hair would scandalize the old bid
dies who were her aunt’s friends, if she were to be honest,
Bethia had to acknowledge a strange longing to feel this
man’s hands touching her again.

In the end—could she blame it on her fatigue?—desire
easily overcame good sense.

Looking up into gray eyes that betrayed no emotion,
Bethia nodded mutely, and without speaking, Mr. Rendel
vanished once again through the doorway at the other end
of the cottage. When he returned, her cheerful mood van
ished, for he carried in his hand an elegant, ebony-backed brush. Unfortunately, there could be no doubt that it was a
lady’s brush.

It would appear that Mr. Rendel did have a woman in his
life. Was he married after all?

Or perhaps it did not belong to a lady? Might the brush
have been left here by his mistress?

Or perhaps the owner of the brush, be she lady or otherwise, no longer belonged in his life?

While Bethia was still considering the implications of the
brush, Mr. Rendel began to untangle her hair, and Bethia
had to bite her lip to prevent a sigh from escaping.