It Takes a Hero (33 page)

"She's what?" he ground out. Not that it surprised him. It had probably been too much to believe that Rebecca could stop just like that.

"Yes. I caught her yesterday afternoon in her room scribbling page after page!" Her brows rose. "You know what this means don't you?"

Yes, he knew. If Rebecca continued writing there would be no Bettlesfield Park. "It might have been letters or some of the colonel's correspondence," he offered.

"It wasn't!" the lady said. "It was more of those novels." She went to a sideboard and opened a drawer, pulling out a handful of pages, shaking them before him.

He passed on reading them. If Lady Tottley said they were further adventures of Miss Darby, he believed her.

"I will speak to her," he said. Threaten her was more like it, though he was afraid if he offered bodily harm, Lady Tottley would demand a public flogging.

"If that was just all!" Lady Tottley declared. "Her uncle is a Bedlamite! Why he has the staff marching each morning and has demanded that Crumpton be armed to 'protect our perimeter.' "

"The colonel is relatively harmless," Rafe assured her. "And your staff will survive. They are well trained and well chosen." He made a note to chat with Posthill about maintaining his ruse without driving Lady Tottley's servants into full revolt.

"And then there is the matter of that," she said, pointing a long finger at what was probably once a very expensively covered chair. The fabric was in shreds and the legs looked liked they'd been run through a grist mill. Atop this domestic ruin, lay Ajax, curled into an innocent ball of yellow and white stripes.

"That evil creature is single-handedly trying to destroy my house. Not to mention terrorizing the maids."

"He's just a cat," he said, though he wasn't all that convinced of the fact himself.

"I caught him yesterday hanging by his claws in my new drapes. It took three footmen to get him down."

Just three?
he resisted asking.

Ajax's ears twitched and he poked his head up, his one eye opening.

Rafe swore the damn thing smiled, as if proud to hear his accomplishments recounted with such detail and aggravation.

Lady Tottley sighed, a loud lament that rang through the room. "And finally, Mr. Danvers, I blame you for bringing that odious Mr. Kitling into my house."

Rafe crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly wary. "What has Kitling done?"

Cochrane had been watching the man's comings and goings, so Rafe knew that the man had been spending an inordinate amount of time at the countess's house.

Mostly around meal time, a sin that Cochrane saw no fault in, and truly neither did Rafe, considering Lady Tottley's chef was coveted by half of Mayfair.

"He is a fortune hunter, sir! And his father is no gentleman."

"He's a baronet," Rafe pointed out.

"Raised to that position after he helped negotiate a trade agreement with the Russians. Commerce! Why the man is a
cit
. And his son is nothing more than a sponger. An impoverished one, at that."

Not unlike half the
ton
, Rafe wanted to point out, but Lady Tottley didn't appear ready to listen. But one thing did catch his attention. "How do you know he hasn't any funds?"

Lady Tottley's gaze rolled upward. "Mr. Danvers, you aren't the only one capable of ferreting out the
ton
's secrets."

Rafe had to imagine not even Barclay and Company would deny her access to their clients' accounts.

And if Sydney Kitling had no money—then where were the funds that supported his fondness for all things fashionable coming from?

In the meantime, while he pondered these developments and how best to uncover Sydney's secrets, Lady Tottley had rung for Crumpton. The butler arrived so promptly, Rafe suspected the old fellow of eavesdropping at the door,
à la
Mrs. Wortling.

"Bring Miss Tate here," she intoned, much as Henry VIII must have called for Catherine Howard when he discovered her infidelity. But if Lady Tottley thought she could berate Rebecca into submission she was about to find herself sadly mistaken.

Meanwhile, Lady Tottley continued listing her complaints from the last week. The disgraceful mess Ajax had coughed up on Lady Funtley's slippers—while Lady Lucinda was pouring the tea, no less. The colonel's demand that the countess invest in a cannon. Nothing extravagant, just a nice six pounder that would send a good shot into Cheapside. Not that she minded Cheapside being laid siege to, but really, what would her neighbors say about the noise?

It was all Rafe could do not to laugh at her laments. How was it that Rebecca could be such a practical and sensible woman, yet wherever she went, chaos swirled from her serene hemline like a West Indies hurricane?

Upheaval and commotion he'd come to enjoy. Missed so very desperately.

His brothers had been right—he should just catch her up and marry her. Damn his worries, and his pride. He'd find a way to keep her in silks and the colonel in cannon balls.

And he would do it today, this very afternoon…

Rafe had his determination fully in place by the time the door opened behind him, and Rebecca's dulcet voice called out, "You asked for me, my lady?"

But when he swung around, he wondered where she stood, for before him stood a striking London miss, coifed and dressed to perfection like one of the figurines decorating Lady Tottley's mantel.

"Rafe!" the lady said, coming forward and nearly tripping over Ajax who had jumped down to greet his indulgent and understanding mistress.

Then it hit Rafe that this vision was Rebecca. What had Lady Tottley done to her? He'd only left her in the lady's care a week ago!

The generous red and topsy-turvy curls he loved, were now piled artfully atop her head, perfect coils spilling elegantly to her shoulders. And then there was her dress—what had happened to the sacklike monstrosities she usually wore? This gown, what there was of it, revealed the generous swell of her breasts and the nip of her waist, the curve of her hips. The curves he'd caressed, the body he'd found as close to heaven as a man could venture without sticking his fork in the wall.

"Rafe, you've come back!" she exclaimed.

Was it his mistake or did she sound glad to see him?

Lady Tottley's brows had risen at this familiar use of his name. "
Mr. Danvers
is here to discuss our agreement. The one you have so blithely ignored, despite taking full advantage of my patronage."

Rebecca opened her mouth to protest, but Rafe beat her to the punch. "What have you done to yourself?" he asked, circling her.

"What I was promised," she replied tartly, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Set myself up to find a husband."

"In that?" he sputtered. "Do you know what kind of men you'll attract? There isn't a vicar in England who would find you sensible now."
Dios
, it was hard to manage a sensible thought with her decked out so!

Lady Tottley laughed. "A vicar? That is who you thought Miss Tate should marry? Sir, I promised the girl a good marriage and that does not mean she'll spend her days toiling in some drafty manse. Miss Tate has already been called upon by Pease. Twice."

"Pease?" he said. "Who is this Mr. Pease?"

"Viscount Pease," the countess corrected.

Viscount
Pease? Not Vicar Pease? Oh, his ever efficient Rebecca had outdone herself.

His decision to declare his intentions suddenly seemed laughable. What did he have to offer against a viscount? A poor flat in Seven Dials and a broken down estate?

He couldn't afford the gown she was wearing, let alone the fancy slippers peeking out beneath the lacey hem.

"He doesn't count, Lady Tottley," Rebecca said quickly. "He's just an old friend from India."

Old friend? The words stuck Rafe like a knife. There wasn't a man alive, old friend or not, who would look upon her and not have some other idea of friendship.

Besides, an old friend implied one certain man.

"You don't mean Habersham?" he asked.

Her chin tipped up. "Yes. Lieutenant Habersham. He's Viscount Pease now. Quite unexpected, but his cousin died and the title passed to him."

"What is
he
doing here?" he asked. She seriously couldn't be considering the man. Besides, he'd be damned if he'd stand by and let this Habersham-cum-Pease hurt her again.

"Hopefully planning to take her as his wife," Lady Tottley said, confirming his worst fears. "But only if you stop writing." Arms crossed over her ample bosom, she glanced at Rebecca and heaved an indignant sigh. "Tell her, Mr. Danvers," she said to him. "Tell her she is to stop writing. Immediately."

Rafe gazed at Rebecca again, wincing at the handsome, elegantly clad woman before him. The only thing familiar was the stubborn set of her jaw. The same look she'd held when she'd challenged him to prove she was the
Miss Darby
author.

Rebecca didn't wait for his admonishment. She launched into her own quite readily. "Lady Tottley, you need not have called Mr. Danvers away from his obligations elsewhere just because I am finishing my book. As I told you yesterday, I have no intention of sending it to my publisher if you succeed in helping me get married. Besides, how can you expect me to stop on the mere promise of a successful Season? I am five and twenty, a factor not in my favor."

"I wouldn't be touting that fact so loud, Miss Tate," Lady Tottley said. "I've been telling everyone you are only just this side of twenty. But it matters not if you are one and twenty or one and forty, if you do not stop writing these
Darby
novels!"

"And if I find myself unwed at the end of this Season, what then? I will still need to eat this coming winter and I will still need to care for my uncle."

Lady Tottley muttered something about putting her cat to good use.

Rebecca ignored the suggestion. "I will not stop writing, but I will not send it to my publisher either. That was what I agreed to—not to publish any more of these novels."

"My dear," the lady cajoled, "you all but have the viscount's declaration."

"His wh-a-a-at?" Rafe sputtered. Habersham wasn't wasting any time reacquainting himself with Rebecca.
His
Rebecca. Where the hell were Colin and Robert? They were supposed to be keeping an eye on her, not watching her waltz off with this cad.

Rebecca sighed. "Lady Tottley, I sincerely doubt Lord Pease is going to offer for me."

"Pish, posh! I haven't spent the last thirty years in London society not to know when a man's smitten and when he's playing a lady false. The viscount is going to propose." The clock struck the hour and Lady Tottley glanced over at it and frowned. "Lawd sakes, is it three so soon? And you aren't even dressed yet." She pointed at the door. "Miss Tate, go change into your new muslin, the one with the green trim."

"But I have something I would like to discuss first with Mr. Danvers," Rebecca said. "In private."

"Unless he is here to propose, there will be no
tête-à-têtes
in my house," Lady Tottley said. "State your business so we can see him gone." She pointed one finger toward the door and planted her feet like a giant oak.

Rebecca heaved a sigh of resignation, then turned to Rafe. "I've been making some inquiries and I've found Mr. Purcell."

"Inquiries?" he asked. Her broken promises to Lady Tottley aside, what about her vow to him to stay out of harm's way?

"I found Mr. Purcell," she repeated, a proud smile turning her pert lips. "I've been able to make great headway here in London with just a few letters, some social calls, and after a visit to the Adjutant-General's office yesterday I was able to obtain the address were he collects the payments for his commission."

Rafe crossed his arms over his chest trying very hard not to admire her thoroughness and attention to detail. Not even Robert with his vaunted contacts to Wellington had been so lucky. Yet how could he tell her so when she was putting her life in danger?

"Miss Tate," he ground out, "you aren't supposed to be involved."

Lady Tottley let out a triumphant "harrumph," one that suggested she was glad to find she wasn't the only one so ill-used by Miss Tate. It also didn't appear that she was going to tolerate much more of this scandalous sleuthing in her house.

Rebecca must have realized this as well, for she frowned and said to him hastily, "Do you want the address or shall I call on Mr. Purcell myself?"

Rafe's temper got the better of him. "You will do no such thing," he told her. "As it is, I also have Purcell's address, and intend to go there this very afternoon."

She nodded. "Good, then I shall accompany you to Spitalfields."

"Spitalfields?" he asked. What was she talking about?

"Yes, Mr. Purcell has taken a rented room above the Royal Thistle in Spitalfields. I have the directions upstairs," she said.

Rafe shook his head, feeling a bit smug. Perhaps her meticulous methods weren't so superior. "I beg to differ, but the man is living in Shadwell, near the docks."

Rebecca's jaw set. "Spitalfields, above the Royal Thistle."

This was the lady he loved, stubborn and passionate. He couldn't help but be pleased that no amount of Town bronze could hide that.

"You are most decidedly wrong," she told him.

"l am not."

"Enough!" Lady Tottley declared. "Enough of this nonsense. Obviously, Mr. Danvers has business to attend to, and you, Miss Tate, have callers to dress for. No more of this talk of gallivanting off to Shadwell or Spitalfields. The viscount left his card yesterday, so he is assured to be here this afternoon. And so will you, Miss Tate, awaiting his proposal."

This afternoon?
Rafe glanced at her again. As enticing as she looked she'd be engaged before Crumpton was through announcing the fellow, if this Pease had any sense. Then again, this was the same fellow who'd abandoned Rebecca before, so that spoke volumes of the man's character.

So did you
, his conscience prodded, leaving his gut twisted with guilt. And regret.

"I leave you to your callers, Miss Tate," he said, making his bow. Even as he turned and left, she followed him, a final admonishment ringing in his ears.