An Unexpected Gentleman (22 page)

Those eyes snapped shut when Connor’s fist connected with flesh. Connor found satisfaction in the throb of his hand. He found greater satisfaction in hearing Sir Robert grunt with pain and watching him fall back against the wall.

Sir Robert’s fingers scrambled for purchase on the bricks. He succeeded in keeping himself more or less upright and stumbled over a pile of refuse, into the center of the alley. He spun around, his face a mask of fear, rage, and blood from a missing tooth.

“Help me, you fool!” He shouted at his man.

Connor stayed the man with a quick shake of his head and a simple flick of the hand.

At the sight of his companion backing away, palms out, Sir Robert pulled a small knife from his coat, let out a shout of fury, and charged at Connor. He swung his arm in a wide arc. It was almost too easy for Connor to dodge the attack, knock the knife away, and land another blow. It was just as easy to step out of the way of Sir Robert’s swinging fist, then step back in again to catch his adversary in the gut.

When Sir Robert let out a sharp wheeze and doubled over, Connor grabbed him around the throat and shoved him straight again. There was no pleasure to be had in punching the back of a man’s head. But there was quite a bit to be found in the sound of Sir Robert’s nose breaking on the next punch.

Sir Robert crumpled to the ground, a bloody, groaning heap.

Connor battled the urge to follow him and pummel with his fists until the groaning stopped . . . Or the vision of Adelaide’s bruise faded from memory. Whichever came last.

Instead, he kicked the knife and sent it skittering over the cobblestones to bounce off Sir Robert’s knee.

“Care to try again?” he taunted. He hoped Sir Robert would take the bait. Nothing would give him more pleasure than an excuse to break his promise.

Sir Robert’s groaning faded. His fingers curled around the knife, and he struggled to his knees.

“You’ll hang for this,” he rasped.

“They don’t hang commoners for brawling with your type, only killing them. And I’ve not laid a hand on you.” Connor made a show of brushing a bit of dust off his coat. “In fact, I spent the night at home, nursing a brandy.”

“I have a witness,” Sir Robert barked, his voice gaining strength.

“Do you?” Connor dug a sovereign out of his pocket and tossed it at Sir Robert’s man. “What did you see here?”

Graham Sefton snatched the coin out of the air. He studied it, a line of concentration across his brow. “It’s not right, a man telling what he knows for a bit of coin. Ought be speaking the truth for its own sake.” He tossed the coin back to Connor. “And it weren’t fair, I tell you, the way those footpads laid into my master. Two of them, there were, and the elder was a brute of a lad. At least ten years of age.”

“You . . . The two of you . . .” Sir Robert glared at Graham, his skin turning nearly as red as the blood on his mouth and chin. “You traitorous filth! I should have known better than to hire your kind!”

“Aye,” Graham agreed with a pleasant nod. “You should have. I might have run off with your silver. Or slit your throat in your sleep . . .” He cocked his head. “Thought about doing both, truth be told.”

“I get his throat,” Connor said mildly. “It was my fiancée he laid hands on.”

“Miss Ward?” Sir Robert threw his head back and let loose a short, raspy laugh. “That’s what this is about?
Miss Ward?
Oh, Christ, this is priceless. You think you’ve won. You think you’ve landed me a terrible blow, but you’ve accomplished
nothing
but to tie a noose round your own neck.”

He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and managed to gain his feet. “I never wanted the bitch. I’d not have given her a second glance if it hadn’t been for you. Poor Mr. Brice,” he crooned in a singsong voice. “Unjustly accused. Locked away without cause. Fated to spend every Saturday watching,
pining
for just a glimpse at his fair maiden. My
God
. So tragic. So
romantic
.” His rapidly swelling lips curved into a gruesome smile. “Such a pleasure to steal her out from under your nose.”

Connor was careful not to react. He wanted to believe Sir Robert spoke out of shredded pride and spite, but he couldn’t.

Bloody, buggering hell. He was responsible for bringing Adelaide to Sir Robert’s attention.

“Even more pleasure to be had in watching you fail,” Connor returned with false calm.

“I’ll have her yet!” Sir Robert’s voice rose in pitch and volume. The humor in his eyes vanished. “I’ll have her when she’s tired of you. When she’s itching to have a man and not a bastard boy. And then you’ll know. You’ll
know
what it’s like!”

“What what is like?”

“To be passed over!” He was near to screeching now, his voice strained and scratchy. “To come second! To have your life ruined—” He took a breath, then another, visibly calming. He pointed the blade at Connor. “—because of a
whore
.”

Connor could all but feel the hate coming off of Sir Robert in waves. It coated his skin and slithered into his pores. He took a menacing step forward and bared his teeth. “Come within a mile of Miss Ward again, and I’ll cut your heart out with that knife.”

“You can have her,” Sir Robert spat. “For now.” And with that, he spun on his heel and loped off unsteadily toward the mews.

Connor watched him go as Graham strolled over and let out a long, low whistle. “Mad as a hatter, that one.”

“No.” Connor rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw. “Just mad enough to be dangerous.”

“He’ll clean his house of staff now.”

Connor nodded. “Do you know which are to be trusted?”

“Don’t know but one or two in the lot who wouldn’t be happy to find other employment.”

“They have it. At Ashbury Hall.”

“Will you still be getting married?”

He spoke without hesitation. “Yes.”

“You’re a good man.”

He wasn’t, particularly. He was selfish, and greedy, and territorial. It was a pity Sir Robert hadn’t fancied himself in love with Adelaide, and it infuriated Connor to know he’d been the reason Sir Robert had sought Adelaide out. But neither of those things altered the pertinent facts. He’d wanted Adelaide, and now she was his. She would always be his. That was what mattered.

Graham sniffed and cocked his head. “Connor?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I have the sovereign back?”

C
onnor called on Adelaide the next morning. He didn’t mention where he’d gone the night before, and Adelaide didn’t ask. As far as she was concerned, what was done was done. She was more than ready to put the distasteful events of the past week behind her.

That’s not to say she forgave Sir Robert for his actions, nor intended to forget the humiliation she had suffered because of Connor. She simply saw no benefit in dwelling on her anger, not when there was so much else to occupy her time and thoughts.

Wedding plans, for example, took up an inordinate amount of time and energy. A circumstance she attributed to Connor possessing an inordinate amount of stubbornness.

He wanted the efficiency of an elopement. She wanted to wait for the banns to be read. He suggested they compromise with the purchase of a special license. She called it an inexcusable waste of money and refused to admit the truth of why she wished to wait. No bride, no matter how steeped in pragmatism, wanted the memory of her wedding day to be marred by a bruise the size of Inverness-shire.

To distract him from that argument, she started another. She wanted a small ceremony. He insisted it would be a grand affair.

She thought to wear a simple muslin dress. He offered to pay for a gown made of the finest silk.

She reminded him a lady did not accept articles of clothing from a gentleman. Not even her fiancé.

He offered her the fifteen thousand pounds in advance so she could purchase the items herself.

“She accepts.”

This immediate response came from Isobel, who had been entertaining George with a tugging match over an old apron and watching Connor and Adelaide argue across the dining room table for the last half hour—an exercise she gave every appearance of enjoying.

“Do I, indeed?” Adelaide inquired. She might have, actually, if she’d been given the opportunity.

“Yes.” Isobel turned to her with twin flames of mischief and excitement in her eyes. “I am fully willing to bear the consequences of this decision.”

“Selfless creature,” Connor murmured with appreciation.

“Beetles!” George dropped the apron and ran to Connor. “Beetles! Beetles!”

“Not that sort of creature, lad. Look, look what I’ve brought for you.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, set it on the table, and unwrapped it to display its contents for George.

“Biscuits!” George snatched one from Connor’s hand and held it up for Adelaide to inspect. “Biscuit.”

“It certainly is. Gingerbread, by the looks of it.” And there appeared to be three more just like it in the handkerchief. She smiled at Connor as George tottered off to play with a step stool against the wall. “It was very kind of you to think of him.”

“Not at all. I wasn’t certain if he cared for gingerbread, but I thought—”

He broke off when George shoved the step stool into Connor’s leg and, biscuit caught between his teeth, scrambled his way onto Connor’s lap.

George turned about, nestled his back against Connor’s chest, and went about the messy business of eating his treat.

Connor went very still and stared at the top of George’s head. “Er . . . Is this safe?”

A choking sound came from Isobel. Adelaide forced a bland expression.

“Yes. Small children have been known to sit on a lap or two and emerge from the experience unscathed.”

“Right . . . Right, of course.” He neither sounded nor appeared particularly convinced. He lifted his hands to George’s shoulders, as if afraid the boy might tumble off without warning, then seemed to change his mind. He gripped the table edge instead, neatly boxing George in between his arms. “Right.”

Adelaide smothered a laugh, fearful she would break the sweet spell of the moment. This softer, less confident side of Connor was still new to her. She’d caught a glimpse of it when he’d asked for the true reason she’d chosen him, but seeing him with George . . . This was another level of endearing.

It wasn’t every man who would allow—however reluctantly—a child to climb onto his lap. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would balk at such a familiarity. Few would have been so charmed, or so transparently ill at ease.

She wondered if there might be something redeeming in Connor Brice. Something more valuable than a promise of fifteen thousand pounds a year.

Isobel, though clearly amused, was evidently not contemplating the possibility of Connor possessing more than one virtue. “We were discussing funds made available in advance of the wedding?”

“Right. You’ll need a bit to keep you over until the paperwork is complete.” Connor hesitated, then let go of the table briefly to once again reach into his pocket, this time pulling out what looked to Adelaide to be a veritable mountain of banknotes. He stretched over George and placed them on the table. “Two hundred pounds should be sufficient, I think.”

Adelaide couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Two hundred pounds, sitting pretty as you please on her own dining room table. It was exactly one hundred seventy-three pounds more than what was left of her savings.

“Good heavens.”

“Two hundred pounds?” Isobel snatched a note off the table and turned it over, her face a picture of wonderment. “Do you always walk about with this many pound notes on your person?”

Connor lifted a shoulder. “More or less.”

“Oh, I
shall
like having you for a brother-in-law.”

Connor laughed and winked at her, a small and wicked gesture that was certain to elevate Isobel’s estimation of him. Isobel had a keen and worrisome fondness for rakish behavior.

“Now, if we’ve settled everything,” Connor said, looking to Adelaide, “I thought we might indulge in a picnic.”

Adelaide scarcely heard him, so occupied was she with staring at the banknotes on the table. Oh, the things she was going to do with that money. Clothes, decent food, a tidy sum set away in the likely—and in her experience, it was always likely—event of a calamity.

“Adelaide?”

“Hmm?” She glanced up to find Connor and Isobel staring at her expectantly. “A picnic. Yes.”

She dragged her attention away from the money, took mental inventory of the pantry and larder, and concluded that, unless Connor was partial to stale bread and cold porridge, a picnic was out of the question.

“I don’t know that it would be possible today. Perhaps day after tomorrow?” When she’d had a chance to spend a bit of that that two hundred pounds.