Temptation and Surrender (2 page)

W
ho?” Looking up from the depressing pile of applications, Jonas stared at Mortimer. “A young woman?”

“Well…a young female person, sir.” Mortimer was clearly in two minds about the social standing of Miss Emily Beauregard, which in itself was remarkable. He’d been in his present position for decades, and was well versed in identifying the various levels of persons who presented themselves at the local magistrate’s door. “She seemed…very set on applying for the position. I thought, all things considered, that perhaps you should see her.”

Sitting back in his chair, Jonas studied Mortimer and wondered what had got into the man. Miss Emily Beauregard had clearly made an impression, enough to have Mortimer espouse her cause. But the idea of a female managing the Red Bells…then again, not even half an hour ago he himself had acknowledged that Phyllida could have run the inn with barely half her highly capable brain.

The position was for an innkeeper-
manager
, after all, and certain females were very good at managing.

He sat up. “Very well. Show her in.” She had to be an improvement over the applicant from Newgate.

“Indeed, sir.” Mortimer turned to the door. “She said she has written references—three of them.”

Jonas raised his brows. Apparently Miss Beauregard had come well prepared.

He looked at the sheaf of applications before him, then tapped them together and set the pile aside. Not that he had any great hopes of Miss Beauregard proving the answer to his prayers; he was simply sick of looking at the dismal outcome of his recent efforts.

A footstep in the doorway had him glancing up.

A young lady stepped into the room; Mortimer hovered behind her.

Instinct took hold, bringing Jonas to his feet.

Em’s first thought on setting eyes on the gentleman behind the desk in the well-stocked library was: He’s too young.

Far too young to feel paternalistic toward her.

Of quite the wrong sort to feel paternalistic at all.

Unexpected—unprecedented—panic tugged at her; this man—about thirty years old and as attractive as sin—was not the sort of man she’d expected to have to deal with.

Yet there was no one else in the room, and the butler had returned from this room to fetch her; presumably he knew who she was supposed to see.

Given the gentleman, now on his feet, was staring at her, she dragged in a breath, forced her wits to steady, and grasped the opportunity to study him.

He was over six feet tall, long limbed and rangy; broad shoulders stretched his well-cut coat. Dark, sable-brown hair fell in elegantly rumpled locks about a well-shaped head; his features bore the aquiline cast common among the aristocracy, reinforcing her increasing certainty that the owner of the Grange sat rather higher on the social scale than a mere squire.

His face was riveting. Dark brown eyes, more alive than soulful, well set under dark slashes of brows, commanded her attention even though he hadn’t yet met her gaze. He was looking
at
her, at all of her; she saw his gaze travel down her frame, and had to suppress an unexpected shiver.

She drew in another breath, held it. Absorbed the implication of a broad forehead, a strong nose, and an even stronger, squarish jaw, all suggesting strength of character, firmness, and resolution.

His lips…were utterly, comprehensively distracting. Narrowish, their lines hinted at a mobility that would soften the angular, almost austere planes of his face.

She dragged her gaze from them, lowering it to take in his subtle sartorial perfection. She’d seen London dandies before, and while he wasn’t in any way overdressed, his clothes were of excellent quality, his cravat expertly tied in a deceptively simple knot.

Beneath the fine linen of his shirt, his chest was well muscled, but he was all lean sleekness. As he came to life and slowly, smoothly, moved around the desk, he reminded her of a predatory animal, one that stalked with a dangerous, overtly athletic grace.

She blinked. Couldn’t help asking, “You’re the owner of the Red Bells Inn?”

He halted by the front corner of the desk and finally met her gaze.

She felt as if something hot had pierced her, making her breath hitch.

“I’m Mr. Tallent—Mr. Jonas Tallent.” His voice was deep but clear, his accent the clipped speech of their class. “My father’s Sir Jasper Tallent, owner of the inn. He’s currently away and I’m managing the estate in his absence. Please—take a seat.”

Jonas waved her to the chair before his desk. He had to stifle the urge to go forward and hold it while she sat.

If she’d been a man, he would have left her standing, but she wasn’t a man. She was definitely female. The thought of having her standing before him while he sat and read her references and interrogated her about her background was simply unacceptable.

She subsided, with a practiced hand tucking her olive green skirts beneath her. Over her head he met Mortimer’s gaze. He now understood Mortimer’s hesitation in labeling Miss Beauregard a “young woman.” Whatever else Miss Emily Beauregard was, she was a lady.

Her antecedents were there in every line of her slight form, in every unconsciously graceful movement. She possessed a small-boned, almost delicate frame; her face was heart-stoppingly fine, with a pale, blush cream porcelain complexion and features that—if he’d had a poetic turn of mind—he would have described as being sculpted by a master.

Lush, pale rose lips were the least of them; perfectly molded, they were presently set in an uncompromising line, one he felt compelled to make soften and curve. Her nose was small and straight, her lashes long and lush, a brown fringe framing large eyes of the most vibrant hazel he’d ever seen. Those arresting eyes sat beneath delicately arched brown brows, while her forehead was framed by soft curls of gleaming light brown; she’d attempted to force her hair into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, but the shining curls had a mind of their own, escaping to curl lovingly about her face.

Her chin, gently rounded, was the only element that gave any hint of underlying strength.

As he returned to his chair, the thought uppermost in his mind was: What the devil was she doing applying to be an innkeeper?

Dismissing Mortimer with a nod, he resumed his seat. As the door gently closed, he settled his gaze on the lady before him. “Miss Beauregard—”

“I have three references you’ll want to read.” She was already hunting in her reticule. Freeing three folded sheets, she leaned forward and held them out.

He had to take them. “Miss Beauregard—”

“If you read them”—folding her hands over the reticule in her lap, with a nod she indicated the references—“I believe you will see that I have experience aplenty, more than enough to qualify for the position of innkeeper of the Red Bells.” She didn’t give him time to respond, but fixed her vivid eyes on his and calmly stated, “I believe the position has been vacant for some time.”

Pinned by that direct, surprisingly acute hazel gaze, he found his assumptions about Miss Emily Beauregard subtly altering. “Indeed.”

She held his gaze calmly. Appearances aside, she was clearly no meek miss.

A pregnant moment passed, then her gaze flicked down to the references in his hands, then returned to his face. “I could read those for you, if you prefer?”

He mentally shook himself. Lips firming, he looked down—and dutifully smoothed open the first folded sheet.

While he read through the three neatly folded—identically folded—sheets, she filled his ears with a litany of her virtues—her experiences managing households as well as inns. Her voice was pleasant, soothing. He glanced up now and then, struck by a slight change in her tone; after the third instance he realized the change occurred when she was speaking of some event and calling on her memory.

Those aspects of her tale, he decided, were true; she had had experience running houses and catering for parties of guests.

When it came to her experience running inns, however…

“While at the Three Feathers in Hampstead, I…”

He looked down, again scanned the reference for her time at the Three Feathers. Her account mirrored what was written; she told him nothing more.

Glancing at her again, watching her face—an almost angelic vision—he toyed with the idea of telling her he knew her references were fake. While they were written in three different hands, he’d take an oath two were female—unlikely if they were, as stated, from the male owners of inns—and the third, while male, was not entirely consistent—a young male whose handwriting was still changing.

The most telling fact, however, was that all three references—supposedly from three geographically distant inns over a span of five years—were on the exact same paper, written in the same ink, with the same pen, one that had a slight scratch across the nib.

And they appeared the same age. Fresh and new.

Looking across his desk at Miss Emily Beauregard, he wondered why he didn’t simply ring for Mortimer and have her shown out. He should—he knew it—yet he didn’t.

He couldn’t let her go without knowing the answer to his initial question. Why the devil was a lady of her ilk applying for a position as an innkeeper?

She eventually ended her recitation and looked at him, brows rising in faintly haughty query.

He tossed the three references on his blotter and met her bright eyes directly. “To be blunt, Miss Beauregard, I hadn’t thought to give the position to a female, let alone one of your relative youth.”

For a moment, she simply looked at him, then she drew in a breath and lifted her head a touch higher. Chin firming, she held his gaze. “If I may be blunt in return, Mr. Tallent, I took a quick look at the inn on my way here. The external shutters need painting, and the interior appears not to have been adequately cleaned for at least five years. No woman would sit in your common room by choice, yet it’s the only public area you have. There is presently no food served at all, nor accommodation offered. In short, the inn is currently operating as no more than a bar-tavern. If you are indeed in charge of your father’s estate, then you will have to admit that as an investment the Red Bells Inn is presently returning only a fraction of its true worth.”

Her voice remained pleasant, her tones perfectly modulated; just like her face, it disguised the underlying strength—the underlying sharp edge.

She tilted her head, her eyes still locked with his. “I understand the inn has been without a manager for some months?”

Lips tightening, he conceded the point. “Several months.”

Far too many months.

“I daresay you’re keen to see it operating adequately as soon as may be, especially as I noted there is no other tavern or gathering place in the village. The locals, too, must be anxious to have their inn properly functioning again.”

Why did he feel as if he were being herded?

It was plainly time to reassert control of the interview and find out what he wanted to know. “If you could enlighten me, Miss Beauregard, as to what brought you to Colyton?”

“I saw a copy of your notice at the inn in Axminster.”

“And what brought you to Axminster?”

She shrugged lightly. “I was…” She paused, considering him, then amended, “
We
—my brother and sisters and I—were merely passing through.” Her gaze flickered; she glanced down at her hands, lightly clasped on her reticule. “We’ve been traveling through the summer, but now it’s time to get back to work.”

And that, Jonas would swear, was a lie. They hadn’t been traveling over summer…but, if he was reading her correctly, she did have a brother and sisters with her. She knew he would find out about them if she got the job, so had told the truth on that score.

A reason for her wanting the innkeeper’s job flared in his mind, growing stronger as he swiftly assessed her gown—serviceable, good quality, but not of recent vintage. “
Younger
brother and sisters?”

Her head came up; she regarded him closely. “Indeed.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would that be a problem? It’s never been before. They’re hardly babes. The youngest is…twelve.”

That latter hesitation was so slight he only caught it because he was listening as closely as she was watching him. Not twelve—perhaps a precocious ten. “Your parents?”

“Both dead. They have been for many years.”

Truth again. He was getting a clearer picture of why Emily Beauregard wanted the innkeeper’s job. But…

He sighed and sat forward, leaning both forearms on the desk, loosely clasping his hands. “Miss Beauregard—”

“Mr. Tallent.”

Struck by her crisp tone, he broke off and looked up into her bright hazel eyes.

Once he had, she continued, “I believe we’ve wasted enough time in roundaboutation. The truth is you need an innkeeper quite desperately, and here I am, willing and very able to take on the job. Are you really going to turn me away just because I’m female and have younger family members in my train? My eldest sister is twenty-three, and assists me with whatever work I undertake. Likewise my brother is fifteen, and apart from the time given to his studies, works alongside us. My youngest sisters are twins, and even they lend a hand. If you hire me, you get their labor as well.”

“So you and your family are a bargain?”

“Indeed, not that we work for nothing. I would expect a salary equal to a twentieth of the takings, or a tenth of the profits per month, and in addition to that, room and board supplied through the inn.” She rattled on with barely a pause for breath. “I assume you wish the innkeeper to live on site. I noticed that there are attic rooms above, which appear to be unoccupied and would do perfectly for me and my siblings. As we’re here, I could take up the position immediately—”

“Miss Beauregard.” This time he let steel infuse his voice, enough so that she stopped and didn’t try to speak over him. He caught her gaze, held it. “I haven’t yet agreed to give you the position.”

Her gaze didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. The desk may have been between them, yet it felt as if they were toe-to-toe. When she spoke, her voice was even, if tight. “You’re desperate to have someone take the inn in hand. I want the job. Are you really going to turn me away?”