One Night with a Regency Lord: Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone

She looked puzzled. ‘How difficult am I to understand?’ he said sharply. ‘I don’t wish to play.’

‘But it’s only a game of cards—an amusing diversion,’ she protested.

‘For the last time, I don’t wish to play.’

The familiar bleak expression had returned to Gareth’s face. His eyes were once more stony and the straight night-black brows threatening. He leaned back in his chair, detaching himself from the proceedings and refusing to meet her earnest look.

‘That’s all right,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t. Just learn to take a refusal when it’s given.’

She bit back a retort. After tomorrow she would never see Gareth Wendover again. It was hardly worth quarrelling with him despite his extraordinary rudeness. But it was difficult to accept that he was the same man who had kissed her with such ardour only yesterday. He was transformed and she felt deeply wounded by the change.

‘I’ll find something else to play,’ she stammered a little shakily.

Minutes later she returned with the spillikins. The hard look on Gareth’s face had disappeared and when he saw the spillikins he laughed out loud.

‘I know you’ve been my nursemaid these past few days, but have I regressed that badly that you need to play a child’s game with me?’

‘That’s all they have downstairs, and we must make the best of it.’

She held upright the bunch of thin sticks and allowed them to fall at will. They scattered wildly across the table top.

‘The sticks coloured blue score most highly, red next, then yellow, and green are the most lowly,’ she explained.

‘I shall be lucky to pick up one stick cleanly, never mind its colour. I’ve suffered an accident, after all.’

‘You’ve sprained your ankle, not your wrist.’

‘But women are so much more dextrous, it’s hardly fair.’

‘Surely, Mr Wendover, you’re not saying that a woman can outdo you.’

‘Gareth, please. If we’re to be serious competitors, we must use first names. That way our insults, when they start flying, will be nicely personal.’

‘I’ve no intention of trading insults. It’s just a game, not a competition,’ she said carelessly.

Nevertheless, she tried very hard to win. When it came to her turn she took minutes to weigh up the arrangement of sticks before deciding which one she would try to extricate from its place without dislodging the others. Gareth had gone first and could begin with the easiest stick to lift, but once into the thick of the game, they were both forced to concentrate intently when their several turns came round. At one point, he appeared to disturb one of the sticks he was trying to avoid and she called foul.

‘I merely breathed on the stick and it moved of its own accord,’ he disputed, shaking his head in bewilderment.

She burst out laughing. ‘That’s certainly original. I’ll give you the excuse if only for sheer invention.’

He laughed back at her, his heart filled with a strange happiness. So the game went on until there was just a small pile of sticks left in the middle of the table, all thickly entangled. They were neck and neck in the number they’d managed to acquire and, faced now with the most difficult moves, they both studied the table keenly, trying to decide their best approach. In the event it was Gareth who managed to extricate his last spill without disturbing the one other that was left.

‘Voilà!’ he exclaimed.

‘Magnifique,’ she unconsciously rejoined, responding spontaneously to his skilful play.

‘A maidservant who speaks French as well as having a French name! It becomes more and more intriguing.’ He looked searchingly at her.

‘I’d hardly say that I spoke French,’ she said, desperately seeking a way of moving the conversation on to less dangerous ground.

‘Still, it’s an unusual maid who knows any French. And you are an unusual maid, aren’t you? You’re proud and independent, you speak genteelly and hold yourself like a lady. If it weren’t for your clothes, I would take you for a lady.’

From the bottom of her heart, she thanked the absent Fanny for donating her wardrobe, then set about allaying his suspicions.

‘My young mistress made a great friend of me and I learned from her how to go on.’

He considered this for a while. ‘You may have learned conduct from her but not, I think, your courage.’

‘What do you mean?’ She was disconcerted.

‘Didn’t you say that your mistress was being married off against her will?’

‘She is, but courage won’t help her. Her brother has gambled away the family’s fortune and marriage is the only way to restore it. She’s expected to make this sacrifice for her family.’

‘Quite a sacrifice! Would you make it, I wonder?’

‘I would not,’ she declared ringingly and with a vehemence that surprised him.

He looked at her as she sat across the table. Her creamy skin glowed translucent in the shadowed sunlight that filled the room and the velvet brown of her eyes blazed a fiery spirit. She had never looked more enchanting.

‘Nor should you,’ he said, his voice husky with feeling.

The atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension, their bantering mood dissipated. He should defuse the moment, he thought, make a joke, turn away. She’d already chosen to put distance between them and she was right. Instead, he rose quickly from his chair, taking no heed of the damaged ankle, and took both her hands in his. Slowly he raised her up and encircled her in his arms.

Crushed against his hard frame, she felt the same foolish impulse to melt into him; she began to tremble beneath his hands. He touched her face, her arms, and brushed across the warm silk of her breast. He gently kissed her hair, her ears, her cheek. In a moment his tongue had parted her lips and was slowly exploring the softness of her mouth. His body moved against her and she groaned softly with pleasure. She wanted to dissolve into this nameless delight, yet some voice of wisdom pulled her back to consciousness. This was a man who had come from nowhere and would go to nowhere. She would never see him again once they parted. He’d made her vulnerable, created a desire in her that she’d never before known. And desire meant weakness; she had only to think of her mother’s fate to know that. Impelled by a new urgency, she hastily pushed him away and began to tidy the scattered sticks, barely able to see them for the emotions churning within her.

‘That shouldn’t have happened.’

He was still standing close to her, his breathing ragged and his voice rough. He seemed furious with himself.

‘After yesterday I vowed I’d never again touch you.’

Distractedly, she smoothed her tumbled hair and then began to pack the last of the spillikins in their box.

‘Forgive me if I’ve distressed you.’ His harsh tones grated, breaking through her silence.

‘It’s of no importance. I don’t wish to talk of it,’ she managed. Her outward calm belied the turmoil within. ‘It must be time for nuncheon,’ she continued smoothly. ‘I’ll fetch some refreshment from the kitchen.’

She glanced fleetingly out of the window, as she turned to leave. A carriage had pulled up outside. In itself this was unusual but this was not any carriage. It was a lightly built curricle drawn by four high-stepping greys and the curricle door had a well-known crest on its panel. It had to be Rufus Glyde. He had traced her after all. He was here. She turned sheet-white and the box dropped from her suddenly lifeless hand.

‘Excuse me,’ she gasped, ‘I have to go.’

And with that she dashed from the room, leaving Gareth baffled and infuriated.

Chapter Five

Rufus Glyde was in no pleasant mood. He’d been driving almost continuously for days without once ever sighting his quarry. In addition he’d had to endure the sharp tongue of Brielle St Clair when he’d dared to enquire for her granddaughter at the Bath house. It had been a terse encounter on both sides, but he’d definitely come off worse, told in no uncertain terms that his intervention in family affairs was not welcome. It had been the first intimation for Brielle that all was not well with her granddaughter. She was furious that Lord Silverdale had not come himself to tell her of Amelie’s flight, but instead left it to this sneering and patronising stranger to break the news. Most of all she was desperately worried. She felt sick when she thought of what might have befallen the young girl. Her dread fuelled a naturally acerbic tongue and Glyde was still smarting from his dismissal.

As he entered the George the idea that he was on a wild goose chase became insistent. For a while he’d thought that he might be on Amelie’s trail. At Reading where he’d stopped for the night, he’d overheard a conversation between two travellers that gave him pause. One of them had told the strange story of a stage held up on the Bath road, not for jewellery or money, but for a young woman travelling in the coach. It had caused something of a sensation when the passengers had disembarked at Bath and begun to tell their tale.

He’d been sufficiently intrigued by the news to abandon his return to London and head once more in the direction of Bath. By dint of questioning everyone he met—and most of these he castigated as ignorant bumpkins—he’d managed to discover the district in which the hold-up had occurred and then begun to cast around at various inns for news of the errant Amelie. So far it had proved a fruitless task and the George looked no more promising.

Entering the taproom, he was greeted by drab, outmoded furnishings and the stale odour of old beer and tobacco. He turned round full circle. The afternoon sunlight in its attempt to pierce the dirty windows only served to emphasise the dilapidation within. Surely Amelie Silverdale would not be residing here. The inhabitants, if there were any, were either dead or asleep. Nothing stirred. Irritably, he rang the bell on the counter and when there was no response, rang it again more loudly. Mrs Skinner appeared from the top of the cellar steps and scowled at him.

‘Did you want somethin’?’

Her voice was not encouraging. Glyde looked the woman up and down. She was gaunt, badly dressed and with a face marked by ill temper.

‘It would appear so since I rang the bell,’ he countered acidly.

‘Well, what is it, then? I’m busy.’

He tried to keep the rising anger from his voice; he needed this woman’s help. He told the same story as he’d told at the other dozen inns he’d visited. He’d been travelling with a friend, but they’d become separated. He carefully avoided mentioning the sex of his companion. His friend had not appeared at the rendezvous they’d agreed on and he, Glyde, feared that his comrade had met with an accident. Did the good lady have anyone staying at the inn who might be his friend?

‘Nobody you’d know,’ she sniffed.

‘But you do have someone staying?’ he persisted.

Mrs Skinner grudgingly admitted the fact but added, “E ain’t your friend, ‘e ain’t a top-lofty gent like you.’

‘My friend is hardly top-lofty. May I ask who this person is?’

‘You can arsk, but mebbe I ain’t of a mind to tell you.’

Again he had visibly to control his anger. ‘I’m sure we can remedy your lack of memory.’

A sneer slashed his thin white face as he took out his bill folder and extracted a note of some considerable value. Mrs Skinner blinked at this unexpected largesse and thought of extending her prize curtains to the rooms above.

“Is name’s Wendover and I’ve told you ‘e ain’t a gent, not with ‘is scruffy clothes.’

Glyde’s hopes withered. For a moment he’d thought he might finally be close to success, but a male resident who wore scruffy clothes and wasn’t a ‘gent’ as Mrs Skinner put it, was not someone who could be of any interest.

‘And he is your only guest?’

‘You’re a nosy one, ain’t you?’ Mrs Skinner’s hand closed over the tantalising money bill. ‘As it ‘appens, ‘Is sister’s staying with him. They ‘ad an accident, too. Funny, the number of accidents round ‘ere these days.’

Glyde ignored the witticism, but his mind was working rapidly. A sister of Mr Wendover might mean a young woman, and this young woman could just be the prey he sought. It was a chance in a thousand, but he had to know. He cast around for a way of distracting Mrs Skinner, who appeared to have taken root in front of her benefactor. His luck suddenly took a turn for the better. Will, who had been working in the cellar alongside his mistress, appeared at that moment at the top of the stairs.

‘Mrs Skinner, ma’am, where d’you want the new barrels put?’

‘Where d’you think, you numbskull?’ was Mrs Skinner’s pleasant reply.

‘There’s not enough room behind the old barrels,’ Will bravely continued.

‘Dratted men,’ she muttered, ‘can’t be relied on to do anythin’.’ Giving Glyde a last withering glance, she disappeared back down the cellar steps.

Her head had hardly faded from view before he made his move. In a few seconds he’d reached the stairway leading to the top of the house and made ready to search out Mr Wendover and his mysterious sister for himself.

Gareth stared blankly through the window at the curricle as it disappeared towards the stables. From the rear it looked to be a nobleman’s carriage, but he had no idea who it belonged to or why it was at the George. Amelie had evidently gained a better view and she had recognised it. The thought came to him that this might be her previous employer, enraged by her dubious departure. He realised with a jolt that his initial suspicions had been completely lulled and now his mind could no longer consider the possibility that she was a deceiver. He dismissed the idea even as it came into his head. And common sense soon reasserted itself. If she were a dishonest maidservant, whatever she might have done and however furious her noble employer, the possibility of his seeking her out in a rundown country inn was extremely unlikely.

Annoyance at Amelie’s abrupt departure mingled with feelings of self-reproach. He’d spoiled the warm companionship of the morning. One minute they’d been laughing, joking, funning with each other. And then everything had changed. He’d touched her and he shouldn’t have. She was irresistible, but he should have resisted. God knew he’d had enough experience in escaping amorous situations, so why was this so different? He couldn’t account for it. Indignation at the notion of sacrificing herself to family duty had rendered her beauty overwhelming, her eyes a molten brown and the sheen of her skin glowing fire. But it was more than physical beauty that had shattered his restraint. In that moment it seemed her very soul had been laid bare and spoken unmistakably to his. He gave himself a mental shake: such fanciful nonsense! Whatever the reason, he’d not been able to stop himself. Even now he could feel her mouth, soft but eager, opening delicately to his.

When he heard the bedroom door open he turned, a contrite expression on his face, but instead of Amelie he was confronted by Rufus Glyde, a man he’d not seen for seven long years. Both men stared at each other in amazement. Glyde was the first to find his voice.

‘Surely,’ he jeered, ‘it cannot be Gareth Denville. Aren’t you supposed to be resting on the Continent? Surely you haven’t returned to claim the earldom? Even the blackest sheep might be expected to do the decent thing and stay away.’

Gareth stayed silent, his face impassive and his darkened eyes unreadable. For years unfounded suspicions had plagued his mind over Glyde’s role in that ill-fated card game.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down, Mr Wendover?’ Glyde tormented. ‘I’m presuming it is Mr Wendover? Why the false name, I wonder? A silly question no doubt. I imagine you would prefer to keep your identity hidden for all kinds of reasons. And staying in a place like this!’ The smirk became more pronounced.

Gareth remained standing. His voice was cold and curt. ‘State your business. Mine is none of yours,’ he rapped out.

‘Still hot-tempered, I see. Some things never change. Though you’ve aged—not quite as fresh faced as when I saw you last. Now, when was that? Ah, yes, the Great-Go. Quite a night, quite a sensation, I recall.’

‘Cut to the chase, Glyde, what do you want?’

‘Not you, for sure. Keeping company with the flotsam of society is not really my custom. But I am rather interested in the sister you appear to have acquired. If my memory serves me right—and, of course, I could be wrong, family genealogy was never my strong point—your father, another unfortunate I understand, had only one child and that child was you. So a sister?’

‘It’s none of your affair and I’ll thank you to leave.’

‘Now that’s where we could disagree, I fear.’

‘I’ve nothing further to say to you. Leave of your own free will or at the end of my boot, it’s your choice.’

‘Proud crowing from someone plainly unable to enforce their threat.’ He gestured at Gareth’s bandaged ankle. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as quickly as you could want. What about this sister?’

Gareth weighed up the odds of forcibly removing his antagonist from the room and decided it was probably not worth the pain he would inevitably suffer. He would give him the minimum of information and speed him on his way.

‘She is merely an acquaintance who happens to be staying at the inn.’

‘An acquaintance you call a sister. Come, Denville, that won’t wash. Who is she?’

‘She’s a maidservant, no one you know and no one of any interest.’

‘A maidservant? Pitching it rather low even for you, my dear Denville. A maidservant—and your doxy, I presume.’

Gareth’s knuckles tightened until they were white. ‘Get out!’

‘Dear, dear, that temper again. Yes, I see, your doxy, and to pacify that dreadful harpy downstairs, you pass her off as your sister. You’re right, of course, I have no interest in her. The woman I seek would not pass the time of day with you, and as for impersonating a maidservant and sharing this vile refuge, the idea is laughable.’

‘Now you’ve had your laugh, you’re at liberty to leave.’

‘Indeed, and I shall do so very shortly. But first tell me how the cardsharping business prospers in Europe. Did you make a living?’ Glyde glanced down at the elegant coat of superfine he was wearing and then at Gareth’s outfit, daily looking more frayed.

‘And I always thought such practised tricksters went on prosperously,’ he murmured, ‘but it would seem not.’

Ignoring the intense pain in his ankle, Gareth moved with unexpected swiftness towards his enemy and clasped him violently round the throat.

‘If ever you call me a cheat again, you will not live,’ he ground out.

The door had remained open throughout their acrimonious exchange and with his hands still wrapped around Glyde’s neck, Gareth thrust his adversary through the doorway and down the stairs.

At the moment Glyde had been dismounting from his carriage, Amelie had escaped through the back entrance of the inn. She ran wildly past the crumbling outbuildings and through the small wicket gate that led on to open pasture. Dismayed and frightened at the turn of events, she ran without thinking where she was going. Her mind was in chaos, refusing to accept that Sir Rufus had tracked her to this remote place. It was impossible. Nobody except Gareth Wendover knew her whereabouts and he was ignorant of her true identity.

Slowly through the confused toss and tumble of thoughts a chilling idea began to emerge. Was it possible that they were in alliance together, that Gareth knew who she was and had been Glyde’s accomplice all this time? Was it coincidence that Rufus Glyde had appeared out of nowhere, just after she’d been abducted from the stagecoach? The fact that his carriage had mown Gareth down and thrown him into a ditch was probably an accident in their plan. Gareth had resolutely refused to tell her anything about himself. Was that in case she would unmask him too soon, before Glyde could catch up with them? And to think that she had so nearly put herself into his power, so nearly succumbed to his seductive charm.

By now breathless, she was forced to come to a stop. It was pointless running any farther across the fields. She had no idea where she was going and if she turned back again to regain the road, Glyde could overtake her in his curricle at any moment. A nearby clump of trees would provide shelter and from this vantage point she could observe the inn from a distance. She settled herself beneath a sturdy oak, her back against its grainy trunk. The gentle summer sun filtered through the leaves above and birdsong filled the air. It was hard to imagine there was anything wrong with the world. Gradually her breathing returned to normal and her disordered thoughts began to settle. It was madness to imagine that Gareth was in league with the man who was hunting her. How could he have arranged to be outside her house at the precise moment she’d climbed from the bedroom window? It was ridiculous. Even more ridiculous to think him an accomplice. She knew, as well as she knew herself, that he would loathe and despise a creature such as Glyde.

The time passed tantalisingly slowly. She told herself that her pursuer wouldn’t be at the inn long. Even if he ran into Gareth, he would not know him and any description of Miss Wendover’s appearance was unlikely to match that of the aristocratic woman Glyde sought. He would be eager to leave an inn as insalubrious as the George and make once more for the pleasures of London. And once he’d driven away, she could take shelter for one more night. Early tomorrow morning she would get her lift to Wroxall and be on the stagecoach to Bath and safety.

She waited for what seemed an age, although in reality only half an hour had passed since she’d fled the inn so precipitately. In that time she’d neither glimpsed any activity nor heard a sound from the distant building. Maybe, after all, her hiding place was too far away to hear the noise of any departure? She debated what to do. At this rate she could be sitting under the oak tree until nightfall. Gathering her courage, she decided to chance a return. With some stealth she began slowly to approach the inn and, meeting nobody, crept through the back entrance to the passage that ran the length of the building to the open front door.

Almost immediately she became aware of Glyde’s carriage being led back into the courtyard and turned to flee again. But at the same time raised voices sounded above and she was sure one of them was Gareth’s. She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too indistinct. As she listened, there was a sudden noisy creak of bedroom floorboards overhead. In a trice she’d whisked herself into the shadows beneath the stairs. Just in time. Rufus Glyde clattered down the staircase, his face twisted in fury. He was so close that had she reached out her arm, she could have touched him. She remained frozen to the spot as he stormed past her and out into the sunlit yard, throwing himself onto the driving seat of the carriage and whipping up his horses in a frenzy.

She found she was shaking uncontrollably and her first thought was to seek the sanctuary of her bedchamber. But there were questions burning through her brain that needed answers. The angry scene she’d come upon in its dying moments made no sense. Her old suspicions began to return; she needed to know what connection existed between these two men.

Contempt was written large on Gareth’s face. His ankle throbbed angrily, but it had been worth the pain to knock the sneering smile from the face of his foe. Glyde would be for ever associated with the scene of his disgrace and his heart rejoiced that he’d routed the man so completely. But if he were honest, it was the image of Glyde and Amelie together that had spurred him to extreme action. That image was seared on his mind’s eye, even stronger for being intangible. He had no idea why Glyde had turned up at this remote inn or what connection he had to the girl, but speculation gnawed relentlessly at him. He doubted he would ever get the truth from her; he’d been a fool to believe that she was trustworthy.