Miss Mischief - A Regency Romance (11 page)

‘Perfectly,’ she assured him, trying to overlook the fact that he was the reason she had taken a tumble in the first place. She fixed a smile on her face, lest the poor fool say anything else that would incriminate him. ‘Now you had better go. Your mother is probably wondering what you’ve been up to.’

Like many of her admirers, Hugo had a devoted mama. Indeed, that seemed to be a factor in all of the young gentlemen’s lives. Perhaps it was significant. If their devoted mothers were all a little harder on their sons they might not go about behaving like second-rate actors in an abysmal stage play.

With a mumbled apology to Sir Antony, Mr. Ballantine took himself off, although with a sour look at both Mr. Esk and Lord Hathaway, who had undoubtedly spoiled his afternoon’s plans. What a pest it must have been for him to have found a gentleman already on the spot and with the situation well in hand!

As she said her goodbyes to the Esks, Lord Mordern came up to stand beside her.

‘My dear Miss Claybourn,’ he murmured gently, ‘what havoc you do wreak on the hearts of those who admire you. I trust you will treat us kindly.’

This was a familiar refrain. He was always sidling up and saying something of the kind and, no matter how short or discouraging her responses, the wretched man never took offence. ‘They are entirely foolish,’ she said now, voice brisk. ‘And believe me when I say, Lord Mordern, I have no desire to engender
any
kind of emotion in my admirers.’

‘Aye, but we have no choice I am afraid. You are so very…’ he seemed to hesitate over the word and she raised an eyebrow.

‘I trust you are going to be original, Sir.’

He laughed at that. The sound was so unexpected that it seemed to surprise even him. ‘Yes, I’m sure most superlatives have been employed by now,’ he agreed dryly. ‘Sufficient to say, you have a very profound effect on the emotions of most men, my dear Miss Claybourn.’

Johanna inclined her head politely at this but she rather thought that the key word was ‘
most
’ for Lord Hathaway had not been overcome by this much-vaunted power over men that she apparently possessed. And he might just be the one man who she wished to interest. Glancing towards Lord Hathaway as he took his leave of her grandmother, she decided that it was time to do what she could to keep the fellow around, for their acquaintance had been too brief to allow him to go just yet. Johanna wanted to get to know him a good deal better. He was the most exciting thing that had happened in a very long time.

But she knew she would have to be vigilant for he would undoubtedly try to slip away without anybody noticing, thereby avoiding all the tedious observances that came with goodbye. He was a good judge for her father would offer him a bed, which he would undoubtedly refuse. Her grandmother would insist he be fed dinner before he embarked upon his journey, something she knew perfectly well he did not wish to do. He would do his best to wiggle out of every suggestion and plea, she just knew he would.

And that would never do. As far as Johanna was concerned, she was not going to allow him to escape so easily.

Marcus found it hard to extract himself from the clutches of the Claybourns, although it wasn’t so much Johanna that had kept him about, but her grandmother. Katherine Howeth was the kind of elderly lady who was interested in everything, including the gossip from a city she had not visited since she was a girl. He’d done his best, although it had been hard to convince her that as he had not travelled from London and did not know of any gossip, it hardly mattered. As the lady seemed equally keen on hearing about the towns he had visited on his journey he’d done his humble best to entertain, if not inform. It had not taken him long to form a liking for Mrs. Howeth, for she had a sly, quick wit that had kept him well and truly amused, especially as she had a tendency to make uncannily sharp observations about the gentry. Not cruel, not catty but remarkably accurate. All in all, his unexpected call had not been
too
bad, especially after he had shut down Mordern’s far too probing inquiries and had deflected Mrs. Gordon’s honeyed questions. Having turned these aside, the conversation had become a great deal easier to negotiate.

After a time the Esks had even joined in. He had the impression that Mrs. Esk did not care overly much for the company she found herself in but her two children were more than happy to participate. James Esk had focused exclusively on Johanna, staring at her with soulful intensity. Marcus noticed she had responded to the lad’s conversational gambits with the kindness one would show a child that had been allowed at the adult’s table and he’d hidden a smile. He’d known many a youth who had gone through the intense pangs of first love and young James clearly had a bad case of it. Having seen both Mr. Ballantine and Mr. Esk snipe at each other, Marcus no longer doubted the tales of absurd bravado that Miss Claybourn had recounted. Her suitors probably turned themselves inside out to best each other. He had been a little surprised to discover that Hugo Ballantine had not been waiting for them at the house to ensure the object of his interest had survived her tumble, but obviously he had been delayed by his horse delivering him home first.

Before the advent of Hugo, Miss Claybourn’s part in the conversation had waned as she had lapsed into silence, responding only when addressed directly. She would occasionally cast uneasy glances towards Mordern, who seemed to be the source of her brooding silence.

Something in the wind there
, he thought grimly.
The chit does not like the man and I can hardly blame her. He’s a wrong ‘un and no mistake. I wonder if Claybourn intends to marry her off to the man? Surely not. It’s obvious she does not care for him in the least.

Although her liking for the fellow had very little to do with anything, he had to admit. Girls were frequently married off to men they did not care for if the match was considered fortuitous. Marcus could not recall hearing anything about Mordern before but that meant nothing. Before heading overseas he had spent surprisingly little time in London, certainly less than many fellows of his age and position. If he had not gone to France to fight then he might have done what most young blades of his age indulged themselves in; to stay in town and get up to the usual brainless hijinks. To turn up in the drawing rooms and on the dance floors where his kind collected in supercilious, drawing packs, egging each other on to perform some absurdity or another, their mischief made all the worse by them congregating together.

He had done none of these things. By the age of four and twenty he hadn’t actually done a great deal of socializing with his peers at all, more often returned to Barnstable and his family when he was between terms at Eton. It had not been any one thing that had brought him back, each time; his mother had been ill one year and he had wanted to see that she was recovering. And then, there had been estate business and family life with younger siblings and, what with one thing and another, the pleasures to be found in London always seemed to come in a poor second. He supposed, if he’d thought about it at all, that there would be plenty of time to indulge in town life, especially with three sisters to be presented.

Life rarely worked out as one envisioned it would, however. If his father had not had that appalling run of luck at Brook’s that fateful night, Marcus might very well be in London now, helping to set up the townhouse they had owned in Curzon Street in preparation for the forthcoming Season and deflecting his sisters’ demands that he entertain them. Of course, his father would still be alive and his mother would still be laughing at her husband’s excruciatingly bad jokes and he, Marcus, might very well be out and about, looking for the entertainments due to a gentleman of his rank and position. Astley’s Amphitheatre and Somerset House, Vauxhall Gardens and some of the less salubrious places to be found in Drury Lane.

Realizing he was in danger of sinking into maudlin introspection, something he had managed to avoid very well for the past weeks, he decided it was time to disentangle himself from this unexpected social engagement and return to his wanderings. He needed to return to the saddle. He would move on to the next town or village that possessed an inn and stay the night. And in the morning, he would recommence his journey to the coast.

All easier said than done, of course. In the spirit of hospitality, Sir Antony offered dinner and a bedchamber for the night.

‘Too late for you to be traveling, my boy. Leave in the morning after a decent breakfast,’ he’d offered, voice hearty.

‘Thank you, but no,’ Marcus had been expecting such an offer and had refused it pleasantly but firmly. He knew he must be firm. People were sometimes so damned persistent on thrusting their hospitality on him that he had to be firm, just to escape. With practiced politeness, he repeated his gratitude and slipped out to the stables to find Hermes. The big roan was enjoying a nosebag of oats and Marcus gave a wry smile when he saw him.

‘I suppose you would be perfectly happy to stay the night and be pampered,’ he remarked. ‘But as you’ve been so well taken care of and I have eaten my fill, we might even skip the luxuries afforded by an inn and find a nice dry barn somewhere. What do you say to that?’

Hermes gave a noncommittal wicker, bobbing his head up and down, liquid dark eyes above the nosebag gleaming with intelligence.

‘Lord Hathaway?’ the soft voice behind him made him start with surprise. Turning, he saw Miss Claybourn standing in the doorway of the stable. The light glimmered behind her, outlining her with a nimbus of late afternoon sunlight and for a moment – just for a moment – his heart seemed to contract in his chest.
Damn and blast
, he thought, almost indignantly,
no female should be as lovely as that
!

‘Miss Claybourn,’ he said, voice a deal more abrupt than it might have been if he had been expecting to see her there.

‘I’m sorry for startling you,’ she murmured, gliding through the door like a will o’ the wisp and coming to stand beside him. ‘But I wanted to speak to you before you left.’

‘Oh?’ he eyed her warily. She was not looking at him but at Hermes, face reflective. This close, he caught the scent of perfume; it was not overwhelming, but something light and pretty. Jasmine, perhaps. He couldn’t help but wonder how this exquisite creature would be received in London when she went up for a Season. He was prepared to wager she would have a goodly portion of the men at her feet within a sennight.

‘Lord Hathaway, I have a great favor to ask of you,’ she began slowly. ‘I doubt,’ she added, with a quick glance up at him, ‘that you will wish to do so but I feel that I… I must ask. I have nobody else to turn to, I’m sorry to say.’

He frowned down at her. This did not sound good. This sounded, in fact, like something that could keep a fellow moored in one place for far too long. ‘Oh?’ he repeated cautiously, mentally rehearsing excuses that would allow his escape.

‘I am very much afraid, you see.’ The words were soft and barely discernible and, almost against his will, a shaft of concern pierced him and he leaned forward instinctively. What the devil could a girl like Johanna Claybourn have to worry her?

‘What are you afraid of?’

She was silent for a moment, as if ruminating on the wisdom of saying more. Then he heard a sigh. ‘You might think me a fool, but I am afraid of Lord Mordern.’

Marcus frowned. ‘Why should you be afraid of him?’ Although, even as he asked the question he thought he might already know the answer. Mordern was a rake, or something very like it. The signs were on his face for all to see. Men such as that often looked for the most advantageous marriage to leverage themselves out of difficulties, so his presence in the house was hardly surprising. But Marcus could not believe that Sir Antony would give his daughter to such a man, especially as the girl obviously disliked him.

She turned to look up at him. The light in the stable was not very good but he had no trouble making out the pale oval of her face. Her dark eyes appeared every bit as liquid as Hermes’ and a great deal more appealing. ‘You will think me a fool, my lord.’

‘I think I will be the best judge of that. Tell me.’

‘He tries all the time to be alone with me. Once or twice he has succeeded and – oh, how can I explain it? He frightens me, my lord!’

‘In what way, frightens you?’ Marcus demanded sharply. Surely the fellow wasn’t pressing his attentions on a young girl scarcely out of the schoolroom? Although, having taken a good look at Mordern, Marcus suspected that was exactly the kind of thing the man would do.
Get the girl in a compromising position and then have somebody else insist that he do the decent thing. It was hardly a new ploy for a man without scruples – or a woman, truth be told – but it was a despicable one, all the same
.