A Convenient Gentleman

Leander Gray was sitting at a table, slumped against the wall, his attention absorbed by the card he was holding in his hand. From right to left and back again he flicked it between his fingers, over and over, at blurring speed. Then he looked up and saw her. As he got to his feet the card disappeared so swiftly that she wondered if she had been seeing things.

‘Miss Morgan, I presume?’ he said in that irritating manner, so correct and studiously polite that she could not be sure that he was not privately making fun of her.

She inclined her head a fraction. ‘Mr Gray. I believe we should talk.’

‘About what, Miss Morgan?’

‘About the completely unrealistic cost of your services, sir.’

His dark gaze flicked behind her to Mr Matthews. ‘In that case, I don’t believe we have anything to discuss, Miss Morgan.’

‘On the contrary, Mr Gray.’ She folded her hands before her waist and raised her chin. He was just a penniless drunk, after all, with nothing to lose by marrying her except the sharing of a perfectly innocuous name. And yet…

His oddly blank eyes challenged her, making her mouth suddenly dry. Damn him, she thought furiously. How dare he act as if she were nothing and he the master of all? He would marry her, and then she would have the greatest of pleasure in tossing him out and throwing his ten pounds—or twenty, or whatever it took!—out into the snow behind him.

Deciding to change tack, she switched on her warmest smile. That usually served to disarm most men. ‘Mr Gray, we have a matter to discuss that could be of benefit to us both. But I don’t think that here’—she inclined her head towards the barman who had drifted over to ostentatiously remove a speck of dirt on a nearby table—‘is the most suitable place to hold such a conversation. Could I suggest that we move to the hotel?’ She let her eyes flick over his decidedly lean frame. ‘I could offer you a light meal, perhaps a warm room for the night?’

He kept her waiting just a second too long to be polite.

‘No, thank you, Miss Morgan.’

She stiffened in rage. ‘Mr Gray, I don’t believe that you’re in a position to have a choice!’

His shoulders lifted in the slightest of shrugs. ‘One always has a choice, Miss Morgan.’

Damn it, he was laughing at her! Not for the world was she going to let him get away now! She leaned forward, her fingers resting on the edge of the table, her face set in contemptuous lines. ‘Does one choose to turn one’s back on fifty pounds, Mr Gray?’

‘My price, Miss Morgan, is one hundred pounds.’

‘Sixty!’

‘Ninety.’

‘Seventy-five or you can forget it, Mr Gray!’

She heard Mr Matthews choke at the vast sum, but it was too late—she’d made the offer, and with money she didn’t have. But at least the obnoxious Mr Gray bent his head in acceptance of her bid. She’d won after all, just as she had known she would. Ignoring Mr Matthews’s outraged glare boring holes between her shoulder-blades, she nodded graciously. ‘Good. I knew you’d eventually see sense. This way, please.’

Scarcely daring to check that he was following, she walked stiffly out of the bar doors and back into the hotel, through the lobby and the dining room into the kitchen. Once there, because she didn’t know what else to do, she put the kettle on the stove. When she had regained sufficient equilibrium to look up, he was there, standing by the kitchen table, calmly watching her. She caught her breath on an exhalation of relief. She had done it! He belonged to her now!

Mr Matthews appeared to have made himself scarce, and that suited her. Across the table she and Mr Gray studied each other in silence, the only sound the gentle steaming of the kettle.

‘Would you care for a bowl of soup, Mr Gray?’ she said at last.

‘Thank you, Miss Morgan.’

She served him and sat down opposite him to watch him eat. If he was hungry—and she suspected that he was—then he didn’t show it. His table manners were perfect; he broke his bread and handled his spoon in exactly the way Caro’s mother had always insisted her children eat, although she noted the slight tremor of his hand that she thought might be a symptom of his addiction to alcohol. His fingers were long and shapely and, despite his rough appearance, perfectly clean. All, in all, he was something of a mystery. But she really didn’t have the time to speculate on how a man of obvious refinement had sunk to living rough on the streets. She had a business to save. She put her elbows on the kitchen table and leaned forward.

‘Can I take it that Mr Matthews has told you what I require of you for my…seventy-five pounds?’ She found the last words very hard to say—what had possessed her to bid so much for his services?

He looked at her levelly. ‘You require my presence at the church and my name on a wedding certificate, Miss Morgan.’

‘And I hope you understand that that’s all I require,’ she said tartly.

‘Indeed, Miss Morgan. Anything more would cost considerably more than seventy-five pounds.’

His words were delivered so politely that she almost missed the impudence of his message. Her mouth fell open, but before she could recover herself sufficiently to speak, he rose to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me…’

She stood up, too, aware for the first time that he was considerably taller than she was. ‘And where are you going, Mr Gray? Back to the bar?’

‘I was not aware that your seventy-five pounds entitled you to more than my presence at the church at the designated time, Miss Morgan,’ he said mildly enough.

She busied herself tidying up his soup dish and plate. ‘The wedding is tomorrow, at one o’clock. We have some guests staying at the hotel, but there is a room ready for you, and I would suggest that you use it. Just for tonight, mind.’

‘How very kind of you.’

She glared at him. His deferential manner was far more aggravating than any open hostility could have been. ‘I’m not being kind. I’m merely protecting my investment. It will be no end of bother if you get too drunk tonight to remember anything and I have to find someone else to marry tomorrow afternoon!’

He gave a slight bow. ‘Then I commend you on your sound business sense, Miss Morgan. You have my admiration, if not my gratitude.’

Caro lit a lamp with swift, jerky movements, too furious to be careful with the tinderbox and consequently burning a finger in the process. She almost wished that she had taken heed of Mr Matthews’s warning now, and chosen someone else to marry. Someone who would be grateful for ten pounds—ten pounds, mind!—and didn’t act as if he were the one bestowing the favour on her. Who on earth did this man think he was, after all? She slid a quick look from under her lashes at him standing by the warm stove. Scruffy, unkempt individual that he was… She found herself wondering what he would look like after a haircut.

She filled a jug with hot water and handed it to him. Then she led him up to his room in silence, the lamp throwing long shadows on the wall as they mounted the stairs. The room she showed him to was the smallest one they had, although perfectly comfortable and she had aired it only hours earlier. She put the lamp on the dressing table and moved over to draw the curtains. It was snowing lightly again, and she thought momentarily about lighting a fire. But the room was small enough to be snug, and there were two eider-downs on the bed. Besides, she told herself firmly, he was probably used to being cold.

‘Would you like me to light a fire?’ she heard herself offer.

‘Thank you, no. I’ll be very comfortable.’ He poured the steaming water into the wash basin. He doesn’t have a nightshirt, Caro thought absently, watching him. He’ll take off his clothes and wash, and I haven’t given him anything to wear in bed…

Good Lord! What was she bothering about that for? She nodded abruptly and moved past him, to the safety of the hallway.

‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then, Mr Gray.’

‘Goodnight, Miss Morgan.’

It was past midnight when her other guests arrived, rather jolly from a little too much ale and the boisterous walk back through the snow. Stifling her yawns, Caro lit them each a lamp and saw them to their rooms. By the time she crawled into her own bed she was exhausted.

As her eyes closed she thought of Leander Gray down the hallway. He might be cold in his bed, but at least she had ensured that he would be sober and marriageable for their wedding later that day. Just for a moment she wondered if she might not be making a major mistake… But it had been a long day and any doubts disappeared as sleep overwhelmed her.

The faint sound of agonised coughing awoke her at dawn. She’d forgotten all about Aunt Charlotte! Pulling her shawl around her shoulders Caro ran down the hallway to her aunt’s room, almost tripping over her nightgown in her haste.

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