The Taming of the Rake (19 page)

But he’d wanted Chelsea in his bed. He wanted her never out of his bed; he might as well admit that to himself. Admit it and move on. Get back to some semblance of sanity somehow. She wasn’t what he’d wanted, because he’d wanted nothing from any female, expected nothing from any female.

She was the perfect revenge. That ripe plum, fallen unexpectedly into his hands. That’s all she was supposed to be to him.

Now, almost to his horror, she was becoming, very simply, his
all.

How did that happen? When did that happen?

And what the hell was he going to do about it? In the space of a few short days, his entire world had been turned upside down, his life now seemingly divided into two parts: before Chelsea, since Chelsea.

He never wanted to know what life would be like if it could ever be described as
after
Chelsea.

He had to tell her. He had to swallow down all his assertions, his protestations, his determination to be his own man, and admit that he was no longer that man. He was a man whose heart was held in the palm of one small hand.

That shouldn’t seem so terrible, but it did. He’d been too long with the belief that love was not for him; he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t recognize it if it came up to him and rapped its knuckles against his forehead.

And yet…and yet here it, or something very near to it, was. First knocking on the door, but now inside and unpacking, settling in, taking up residence in his heart.

Chelsea liked him, she’d awakened wonderfully well to their physical union, even if she had made a calculated decision to lose her virginity to him so that her brother could not annul the marriage. She was a woman of spirit and determination. But none of that meant that she might love him.

Her practicality was startling, as was her ability to negotiate, get the best deal she thought she could get. And she seemed content with her lot, unflinchingly living up to her end of the bargain.

But how would she feel if he told her the devil with her brother, with revenge, the reverend Flotley and the whole damn world? Tell her that he believed himself to be falling in love with her, which certainly had been no part of their bargain and that he wanted their marriage to be much more than the mutual convenience they’d both seen it as a few days ago. He’d long ago forgiven her for dragging him into her scheme and was even beginning, at times, to think of it as his own. This is what having feelings for a woman did to a man.

But did he tell her? Did he dare risk it?

He’d had a one-sided love and wore the scars to prove it. He wasn’t actively seeking another.

“Wait,” Chelsea called to him as they crested one last hill, and the town of Gateshead lay below them. They sat side by side on their mounts, looking down at the lights and buildings; nothing too impressive, compared to London, but worthy of a moment’s pause while Chelsea admired it. “Have you had sufficient time to come up with a plan?”

“Over and above saving my brother so that I can kill him? No.”

“That’s what I thought.” Chelsea carefully controlled her mare, which seemed eager to move on, probably thinking the accommodations in the larger town would come with a higher quality of stable. “Which is why I have. Come up with a plan, that is.”

He signaled that they should proceed once more, this time at a walk. “Really? How very helpful of you. Does this plan, just by chance, of course, include you in any way?”

“Well…”

“No. Chelsea, you promised.”

“I beg your pardon, Oliver, but I most certainly did not. I would remember if I’d promised. I think I merely agreed.”

“There’s a difference?” As they rode, his gaze swept this way and that; he was trying to remember, of the half-dozen inns he’d visited earlier, the location of the two possible Crowns the murderers—he’d have to stop thinking of them that way—would be heading for to meet with his brother.

“Oh, yes, definitely. An agreement only holds if the person who has done the agreeing finds it possible to do what he or she agreed to do, after which time—if it is not possible—it becomes null and void. A promise is forever. It’s…it’s like a vow.”

“Like a marriage vow. That’s forever, which more and more is beginning to look like a very long time.”

“Yes, Oliver. That’s forever—and once again you
aren’t all that amusing. But I will explain anyway. Agreeing to stay in Puck’s rooms at the hotel was
agreeable
to me as long as, agreeing to it, that agreement got me here. However, now that we’re here, I find it
disagreeable
to me to have been the one who told you what I heard and then be shunted off to hide, like some child, while you effect a rescue.”

“Making the agreement null and void,” Beau repeated, sorting through everything she’d said. Female logic. Nothing could frighten a man more. “It’s a strong argument you’ve got there, Chelsea, but the answer is still no.”

They were already into the outskirts of the town, the lack of others on the street making their presence more obvious. Gateshead certainly wasn’t London; in Mayfair, the streets would be jammed side to side with coaches and partygoers. Here, the residents would appear to retire early to their beds. They needed to get off the street; the two men would recognize Chelsea if they saw her, and that couldn’t be a good thing to have happen.

“You think I’d be in the way, don’t you?”

“On the contrary. I
know
you’d be in the way. There’s a reason women don’t go to war, you know.”

“Yes. It’s called the inflated hubris of men. Have you never read about the Amazons? Well, there were also the Sirens, and some others of that ilk, but we won’t discuss them now. Besides, I wouldn’t actually
do
anything. Anything much. I know you must have been cudgeling your brain for some way to get yourself
inside your brother’s room while the murderers are there. You’re probably thinking about breaking down the door, aren’t you? That’s entirely unnecessary.”

“Is that right? And how would you do it?” How did she know that had been worrying him? If he tried to kick open the door, there could be a knife in Jack’s back before he and Puck could level their pistols at the men.

“Simply. I’d do it simply. I’d knock on your brother’s door, once we locate him and the two murderers have gone inside. Men open the door to ladies, especially ladies offering…well, I’ll offer something. And then, even before the door is opened, I will quickly and prudently take myself off to go hide somewhere safe and let you and Puck take over the rest, all the bashing together of heads and remonstrations with your brother. Simple, yes? Why break down a door when someone is willing to open it for you? Men just make things more difficult sometimes.”

Beau was quiet for a few moments, mulling the plan, because it was a good plan. And immediately saw her mistake. “I can pay a barmaid at The Crown to knock on the door,” he pointed out, thinking he’d just trumped her ace.

“You’d do that? You’d
steal
my plan and not let me be a part of it? Oliver, that’s beneath a gentleman.”

He pointed to the right, and she followed him into the stable yard adjoining the White Swan, allowing him to help her dismount. “You forget. I’m a bastard, Chelsea,” he said quietly as he held her in front of him for a moment. “Nothing is beneath me.”

“Oliver…” she said, her lovely eyes darkening, looking somehow bruised. “I’d just worry the whole time you and Puck were gone. After all, I came to you with the information. Now you and Puck will be in danger, and if anything happens to either of you, it will be on my head for having told you in the first place. I would spend the remainder of my life—with Francis Flotley, remember—wondering if things would have been different if only I’d been able to accompany you. Don’t do that to me.”

“I’m an idiot,” he said, giving up. After all, she was right. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t even know Jack was in Gateshead and in danger. There was also the very real prospect that she might follow after them anyway. Or maybe it was the thought of Francis Flotley touching her. No matter what the reason, he knew he was beaten. “If Puck agrees, you can go with us. But a knock on the door, Chelsea, and that’s it. You understand?”

“That’s a promise,” she said and then took his hand and began pulling him toward the front door of the hotel. “I know you can’t see it the same way, Oliver, but I feel as if I’m on a grand adventure, and this is just another part of it. I feel so alive, nothing at all like the boring and
prayerful
life Thomas has forced me into these past years. Oh, and won’t Puck be surprised to see me, and I really must thank him for my lovely new riding habit,” she said, sounding annoyingly jolly. Of course she was happy; she’d gotten what she wanted, and now all was right in her world again.

While his world kept turning upside down, inside out, and at this particular moment, damn near sideways.

Women. A man could shoot and box and fence and ride with the best of them. He could walk, and run, and talk and reason. He could climb mountains, ford rivers, conquer armies, build empires.

But put a woman in his life, and all his skill, his prowess and definitely his intelligence, deserted him. God may have taken a rib from Adam to give to Eve but, one way or another, Eve had been bashing Adam over the head with it ever since.

C
HELSEA WAS SHAKING
so hard on the inside, trying to appear as calm and composed as possible on the outside, that for a few moments she’d believed she might actually become physically ill.

She knew she was being, in the words of Francis Flotley, an
abomination.
She had tricked and cajoled and browbeaten and anything else she could think of to do, to get herself included in the rescue of Beau’s brother.

She’d had to. The thought of Beau going off without her, getting himself hurt or worse, was simply too much for her. Not that she could say as much, for he’d then only point out that men protected the ladies, not the other way round. As if women were helpless, squeamish, hysterical and bound to faint at the sight of a single droplet of blood. And as if women could contentedly stay home and mind their embroidery without a fear that anything bad could happen.

Men could be so thick.

So let him think she was demanding, interfering, even downright sneaky. As long as she got to go along and make certain he didn’t attempt to do anything heroically stupid.

“Oh, look,” she said, tugging at Beau’s sleeve as they entered the small lobby of the unimpressive hotel—unless a person had just spent several days at vastly inferior wayside inns, in which case the lobby now seemed to rival that of the Poultney in London. “There’s Puck. Over there. Doesn’t he look handsome.”

Puck must have heard her, because he turned his head away from the man who’d been speaking to him and then deserted the fellow entirely, walking toward them, his arms wide—almost as if trying to block the other man’s view—exclaiming, “Mrs. Claridge! Mr. Claridge! How exquisitely delightful to see you both.”

He took Chelsea’s hands in his and surprised her by kissing the air beside her right ear and then her left…where he lingered long enough to say, “Let’s get out of here. Follow Beau. That man already informed me that he knows him.”

Chelsea moved quickly, realizing that Beau already was ahead of her, his head purposely averted until they were back on the street.

“Bloody hell, Beau,” Puck said as they hastened along the flagway, “why not just stand on a chair and announce yourself? Where’s that dreadful costume you had on earlier? You looked like death on a stick, but at least nobody would give you a second glance.”

“Never mind that. What’s Carstairs doing in Gateshead?”

Puck sighed and shook his head. “Did you really think I cared enough to ask? Really, Beau, what does it matter what he’s doing here? I imagine the man’s a
bore anywhere he travels. The question is, what are you doing here? I thought the idea was to keep Chelsea hidden. If you’re going to keep changing the rules, you really should let a brother know. By the way, where are we going?”

“To The Crown, to rescue your brother Jack,” Chelsea answered, all but skipping to keep up with the two men, as Beau looked as if someone had just wired his jawbone together. “There are two, so we need to find the right one. Your brother is there and he’s going to be murdered.”

Chelsea had to hand it to Puck, she supposed. The man didn’t so much as blink before saying, “Well, isn’t that just like Black Jack? Loves his excitement, doesn’t he? Beau? Have you explained to my new sister that Black Jack is never murdered? If anything, I’d imagine it would be the other way round. Perhaps we’re to rescue someone from him? There’s a Crown just at the end of the next street,” he added, and the two men picked up their pace even more.

Chelsea was fast getting out of breath. “Don’t you want to know
why?
” she asked Puck. “Why he is going to be murdered, that is?”

“No, I don’t believe so, thank you,” Puck answered. “Beau? It would appear I’m at a disadvantage, as I had dressed for a late supper, not a brawl. Do you perhaps have a spare weapon somewhere on your person?”

Beau pushed back the riding cloak he’d donned to conceal them, reached into his waistband and pulled
out one of the two pistols he’d tucked there, silently handing it over to his brother.

Puck slipped the pistol into his waistband. “Well, that really ruins the line of my waistcoat, doesn’t it? You had nothing smaller to hand? Pity.”

What was the matter with these two men? One had gone silent as the Sphinx, and the other seemed more concerned with his appearance than he did any danger. “I don’t care if you don’t want to know, I’m going to tell you anyway. He’s fallen in with the French, Puck.”

“Jack? Really? Whatever for?”

“We haven’t got all the particulars,” Chelsea told him as she saw the inn sign just ahead of them. “But it is my opinion that he has hired some very bad men to assist in freeing Bonaparte.”

“No, that can’t be it. Already been done, remember. Why do it again? Seems a man could find something more interesting to do.”

“All right,” Chelsea agreed. “But what then?”

“But what then? Let me see. There’s quite a lot, actually. Not everyone in France is happy with the new government, and there are still a lot of scores, I guess you could say, to be settled. Therefore, a coup of some sort would be my first guess. Nothing like a good overthrowing of the government every few years. Marching in the streets for lost causes, building barricades, wearing colors, singing patriotic songs, hanging the odd fellow or three from lampposts. The French love that. And I do think we English have helped them along a time or two over the years, pointing out to them how
unhappy and oppressed they are with themselves, and that they don’t need to be angry with us.
Vive la France, maison des idiots.
”

“Be quiet,” Beau said, taking Chelsea’s elbow and leading her toward the door to the inn. “Let me do the talking.”

“A bit out of sorts this evening, isn’t he? Sadly, all three of us are prone to having our moods at times. Comes with being Blackthorns, I suppose. I do hope he’s been treating you well. For all his great age, I begin to doubt he’s had much experience with females. Let me amend that—with well-bred females,” Puck whispered into Chelsea’s ear as they hung back in the entrance hall and Beau approached the fat innkeeper at his station.

“Are you ever serious?” she whispered back, her stomach still doing its best to upset her.

“Rarely. I don’t remember the last time any such thing was required of me. Let’s see. There was the evening the Comte returned early from—no, I handled that with amazing aplomb. So no, I don’t remember. Ah, here comes Beau, looking at least marginally pleased, thank God.”

“First time’s the charm. He’s here,” he told them quietly. “And, as far as the landlord knows, he’s in his room, alone. That’s saved us some time we didn’t have to spare. Now let’s get out of here.”

Puck opened his mouth, probably to ask a question, but he would have had to ask it of Beau’s back, for the man had already turned for the door, leaving Puck and Chelsea no option but to follow.

Once outside, he strode quickly to the end of the building and turned into the shadows, again leaving them no choice but to follow. Chelsea would have pointed out his rudeness to him, but she felt fairly certain he wouldn’t see the humor in any jest at the moment. He positively oozed anger from every pore.

Finally, Beau spoke, tersely telling Puck what was happening, the plan Chelsea had devised. They would wait here, concealed in the darkness, until the two men entered The Crown and Harp. They’d then wait another full minute before they’d go inside, upstairs, and Chelsea knocked on the door, requesting entry.

“I’m going to be the maidservant, offering clean towels,” she told Puck, not without a hint of pride, for it had been her idea. “Then, as the door begins to open, I’ll step away and you and Beau can burst in and heroically extricate your brother from his imminent danger. Save him, that is.”

“Sounds like great fun. I’ve always wanted to be heroic,” Puck said. “But here’s a thought. What if he doesn’t want clean towels? Perhaps you might wish to offer something few men ever turn down.”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes, I did consider that. Do you know, there were soiled doves at the inn we’re staying at tonight. I think they’d stopped by to…um, to entertain the travelers.”

“Really? I always pick the wrong accommodations.”

“Puck,” Beau said threateningly.

“No, no, I’m serious. I mean really, Beau. Excuse me, good sir,” he said in a remarkably female voice, “but I
thought, whilst you were busy betraying your country, you might wish to take a moment to have a bit of a wash and brush up.” He shook his head. “No, sorry, I know you were forced to plan in haste, but I don’t think that will work. Besides, we know Jack is alone, that we’ve beaten the bad men here. Why don’t we just nip on in there and warn him? Seems straightforward enough. In fact, except to prod at my brains for a better solution, you really didn’t need me at all. I’d ordered a fat pork chop, you know, and was really looking forward to it.”

Chelsea put a hand against Beau’s chest, as he’d taken a single step toward his brother, murder in his eyes. “But he’s right, Oliver. Why don’t we just go upstairs and warn your brother?”

“Because, you pair of happy nincompoops, there is still the chance, albeit slim, that Jack is working for the Crown, not against it.”

Chelsea was completely at sea for the space of a few seconds, trying to imagine Jack Blackthorn working for the inn. “Oh, you mean the government,” she said before she could stop herself. “I knew that.”

“No you didn’t,” Puck teased quietly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Beau, but the idea of our brother working for anyone, friend or foe, doesn’t seem plausible. Mama told me in confidence that he still continues to refuse an allowance, and that she’s extremely worried that he has turned to something nefarious.”

“Cards. I think he’s a gambler,” Beau told them both, keeping one eye on the inn yard. “But maybe he’s more. God, I’ve always hoped he was more. In any event,
I don’t want to give these two would-be murderers a chance to lope off somewhere, not if Jack has set up some sort of trap for them.”

“That’s very sweet, Oliver,” Chelsea said kindly, giving his chest a quick pat before lowering her hand. “We would all like to think our relations better than they almost always are. I once harbored the hope that Thomas would grow a brain and Madelyn a conscience, but it went for nothing.”

Beau gave a sharp crack of laughter before quickly recovering. “I’m standing in a puddle in a dark alleyway with an idiot worried about his belly and a woman who thinks I’m a sad, pathetic case, waiting for two murderers to meet with my other brother, hopefully not a traitor, and I’m wondering what I ever did to be here.”

Chelsea glared at him. “It must have been terrible, whatever it was. You’re not very grateful, you know. We’re standing here with you. And I don’t even know your brother. It really is a lot to ask of us. Isn’t it, Puck?”

“
Ask
of you? You
begged
— Puck, damn it, stop that.”

Puck was leaning against the brick wall of the inn, clutching his stomach and silently laughing. But then he stood straight once more, pointing toward the inn yard. “Are these your murderers?”

Chelsea stepped forward a pace and peeked around the corner of the building just before Beau grabbed her at the waist, picking her up bodily and hauling her back into the darkness. “Oliver, put me down. And yes. That’s them. I suppose we have to go with my terrible
plan as Puck termed it. You said a minute. We should count. One, two—”

“Don’t you simply love her,
Oliver?
Lord knows I do. You must be having a grand old time with this elopement, while all I get to do is follow after you in that damned coach, sweeping up.”

Chelsea bent her head and smiled at her boots, not wanting to let Beau see how funny she thought this whole thing had become. She could positively feel the agitation coming off him in waves. He was so dear…

“All right, let’s get this finished,” he said, taking Chelsea’s hand and leading her back around to the front of the inn. “Now remember, you knock, ask if they require towels, and then immediately take yourself off to the end of the corridor. I mean it, Chelsea. Do you have that?”

“I could scarcely forget my own plan. And we are being serious, aren’t we, Puck? It’s just that it’s also an adventure. Of sorts,” she ended weakly, as Beau really did look rather oppressed.

Once inside, they headed immediately toward the stairs, only to be stopped by the innkeeper.

“Here now, where do you lot think you’re going? You can’t just nip in here and take yourselves upstairs. You got to pay, sign the book.”

Beau stopped. Swiveled his head to his left. Glared at the man.

“Oh, yes, m’lord, quite right,” the innkeeper said hastily, pulling the ledger back across the counter. “You can just do that later, can’t you, sir?” And then he
turned on his heels and quickly waddled away toward the taproom.

“Bully,” Chelsea whispered as they mounted the stairs. “Much as I’m loath to have you look at me that way, I’m still going to ask—do we know where we’re going?”

“Three-B,” he told her, turning to mount another, more narrow staircase, Puck following behind, as he’d stopped to snatch up an apple from the bowl on the counter.

“Missed my dinner, remember?” he said as they arrived on the third floor and Beau saw him with the now half-eaten apple, which had him glaring again. “Don’t worry. You can pay the man on our way out.”

Chelsea had heard it said that emotions can manifest themselves in strange ways sometimes. Fear, even grief, can suddenly make a person erupt in hysterical laughter, for instance, and great happiness can reduce another person to tears. Why, she even remembered a quote from the essayist Charles Lamb, where he explained that awful things often made him laugh, and that he’d once badly misbehaved at a funeral. She’d often wondered what he’d meant, but now she thought she knew. It was either laugh or cry.

She dearly hoped they were not about to take part in a funeral. But Chelsea believed Mr. Lamb had her full sympathy, because, terrible as this moment could be, and the next moment even more so, watching Puck eat his apple struck her as so funny that it was all she
could do not to plunk herself straight down on the floor and laugh until her belly hurt.