Along Came a Rogue (23 page)

“Major, you're back,” Hulston said with flustered surprise, knowing the purpose of Grey's afternoon mission and having put much care into dressing him for it. “And so soon.”

Muttering a string of curses, Grey yanked off his coat, hat, and gloves and shoved them all into Hulston's waiting arms. Then he slapped the ring box down on top of the lot of them. “Get rid of this!”

“Sir?” Hulston blinked in surprise, not daring to press for more explanation.

“And tell Mrs. Smith to take the night off,” Grey ordered, stalking toward the stairs. “I'm going out for dinner.”

“But, sir—”

“And then I plan on spending the rest of the night at the clubs.”

“Which club?” Hulston's face reddened, even more flustered than before as he held the ring box at arm's length in a futile attempt to hand it back.

“Whichever one lets me through the door,” he grumbled, the words too true to be amusing.

“But, sir!”

He snapped out another curse, this one aimed at Hulston's ancestry. “I don't care what you do with that ring. Pawn the goddamned thing and spend the money on drink and whores for all I—”

“Major, you have a visitor waiting,” Hulston blurted out before Grey could interrupt him again. “I told her you wouldn't be back for hours, but she insisted.”

Damnation!
The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a visitor, especially a female one. After this afternoon, he certainly wasn't in the mood for anything regarding women and had no other goal for the evening than getting blindingly drunk.

“I'm not receiving visitors.” He headed up the stairs. “And you can tell whoever is waiting that she can take her parasol and shove it up her—”

“Nathaniel.”

The mature female voice stopped him in mid-step, his foot hovering above the stair. He knew before he turned around—

“Lady Henley,” he said curtly but politely, facing her as she stood in the doorway to the drawing room.

The last person he wanted to see right now was the stern old woman from his youth. Emily had damned him to hell with her rejection, only now for the devil herself to appear in the flesh.

But with no other choice, he shoved down his anger and descended the stairs. He bowed stiffly to her. “Viscountess.”

She nodded her head regally. “Major Grey.”

He motioned toward the drawing room. She had always been inexplicably generous toward him, when the stiff-spined dowager was rarely kind to anyone outside her own family. He wouldn't insult that generosity by asking her to leave, even if at that moment he'd rather shoot himself than entertain a visitor. “Shall I ask Hulston to prepare tea for—”

“I shan't be here long enough for tea.” Her old but sharp eyes swept over him critically, and he had the odd impression that she was sizing him up. Like an opponent before a fight.
Good.
He could use a fight right now, the anger over Emily's rejection still burning hot inside him.

With the help of her cane, which he suspected served more as a weapon than a walking support, she spun on her heel and charged into the drawing room.

He followed after, gritting his teeth. The
very
last person he wanted to see right now…when he wanted nothing more than to be making his way to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Not taking a seat—apparently, she didn't plan on staying even long enough to bother with sitting—she stopped in the middle of the room and faced him, thumping her cane firmly against the floor.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, ma'am?” Although no pleasure rang in his voice as he ground out the question, getting right to the point. There was nothing to be gained in attempting polite conversation, not with her.

Her brow rose haughtily. The viscountess had always possessed an intimidating air, even when he first met her twenty years ago. Her crusty imperialness was one of the traits he'd liked best about her, and very few people had the arrogance—or bravery—to defy her. “Your name was mentioned at Lady Agnes Sinclair's garden party.”

Well.
That
was a damned lie. Lady Agnes Sinclair was the spinster sister to the late Earl of St. James, aunt to the current earl, and if rumors could be believed, a particular favorite of Wellington's. No one who would have given a scoundrel like Grey a second thought. While he could imagine several scenarios in which his name might arise amid a group of society women, it certainly wouldn't have been at Lady Agnes's garden party. And certainly not in a context to which Lady Henley would have been privy.

“Was it?” He kept his face carefully blank, not giving a damn what those tea party biddies had said about him, yet he felt compelled to ask. Because she expected it. “In what context?”

“Oh, just the usual gossip.” She dismissed that with a wave of her gloved hand, which confirmed the falsehood for him and frustrated him even more.

He folded his arms impatiently across his chest. God knew, with the way he was feeling right now, he might just throttle her if she didn't soon get to the reason for her visit. “And?”

“I remembered that you used to work in the stables at Henley Park. I wanted to see you again for myself, to discover with my own eyes what kind of man you had become.”

Another lie. He knew from contacts within the War Office that the old woman had been keeping an eye on him since he left Henley Park for the Peninsula.
Odd.
Why would Lady Henley call on him at his home, then lie about her motives? She'd given him a job when he'd been starving and homeless, and later, she was the reason he was commissioned into the First Dragoons. He would always be grateful to her. But being grateful didn't mean he trusted her. Or wanted her nosing around in his life.

He'd had enough of lying society women today. His lips curled sardonically as he held his arms out from his sides, insolently putting himself on display for her. “Have you satisfied your curiosity, then, my lady?”

Ignoring his sarcasm, her eyes narrowed on his face. “You've been punched.”

Reflexively, his hand went to his eye, bruised but no longer aching. “I have.”

“Well, I certainly hope you deserved it.”

He grimaced. “I did.”

“And did you return the favor?” she demanded.

“No.”

She
humph
ed with disappointment.

He inclined his head, his patience with her visit growing thin. “In the future, ma'am, I will endeavor to please you by pulping at every opportunity any man who disagrees with me.”

“Impertinent,” she scolded, yet he had the strangest feeling that she approved of his angry sentiment. With a lift of her chin, she pulled at the long sleeves of her old-fashioned dress and swiftly changed topics. “I was pleased to hear you were promoted to major. It was the least Arthur could do for you.”

“Arthur?”
Good Lord
, the woman was frustrating!

“Wellesley.” She blinked, visibly confused that he didn't know whom she meant. “Why, Wellington, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed wryly, as if everyone referred to Wellington by his Christian name.

“And now you work for the War Office.” A flicker of amused pride crossed her face, which stunned the hell out of him.

He answered warily, “Yes.”
For now.
When Bathurst heard of his plans to marry Emily and decline Spain, he might not be employed there much longer. Wouldn't that just be the icing on this cake of a day? No wife
and
no more career.

“A fine life you've made for yourself for a stable boy.”

“Thank you.”
I think…
He didn't know whether to take her comment as a compliment or an insult. And at that moment, he was too damned frustrated to care which. He blew out an irritated sigh, no longer able to tamp down his impatience. “My lady,
why
are you—”

“Major Grey.” Her steely eyes pinned him. “I have been told that you inquired around Trovesbury Village as to your parentage.”

He drew up straight. So
this
was why the dowager deigned to pay him a visit.

But why should it matter to her if he'd written to the constable and to the old parish vicar, asking for any information they might have about a pregnant, unwed woman from nearly thirty years ago? Or that he'd bothered to look through the church's record books when he'd been in Surrey last winter? A wild-goose chase. And none of her business. He'd been curious, that was all, then dropped the matter and not given it a second thought.

Until now.
Now
he was surprised. “Why would you care—”

“You must stop this, Nathaniel.” An order? A plea? Or a warning? He couldn't tell from the odd intensity in her voice, the firm resolve on her wrinkled face. “There is nothing there for you to find.”

His eyes narrowed. He'd had enough today of society ladies telling him what his life should be. “You don't know that,” he snapped.

“But I do. I had you fully investigated when you first arrived at Henley Park, just as I did all the servants employed there.” Her gray brow rose slightly. “Your father was not a blacksmith. You were left on the doorstep of the parish vicarage when you were only days old, and the vicar gave you to the orphanage. The name of your mother remains unknown, as it always will.”

He forced his face to remain impassive, but he couldn't help the unseen clenching of his jaw, the tightening in his chest as anger rose inside him. She knew—
she knew
about his past. And he suspected she knew a great deal more that she wasn't telling.

“Lady Henley,” he growled, “if you know—”

“The past is dead, Nathaniel. Leave it alone.” She hooked her cane over her arm. “You have made a good life for yourself, better than even I had hoped. There is no point in dredging up harm and heartache now.”

Better than even I had hoped…
Confusion surged through him. “Why the hell should you care?”

She didn't even blink at the biting profanity. Instead, her head raised indignantly, and for a fleeting moment, he had a glimpse of the strong woman she must have been in her youth, the woman who ran Henley Park without any help from her philandering husband and eldest son. The woman who still made even the most imposing gentleman quake in his boots and most likely would have referred to the Prince Regent as Little Georgie if His Royal Highness had somehow entered the conversation. A more formidable opponent he'd rarely met.

But he'd already lost one battle today with a willful woman, and he sure as hell didn't plan on losing another.

“Because Henley Park
is
Trovesbury Village,” she announced. “Everyone who lives there either works at the main house or possesses a tenancy. Asking questions will only raise speculation, and I will not tolerate rumors of illegitimacy attached to Henley.”

Illegitimacy?
Anger flared through him. After Emily's lie this afternoon that he wasn't good enough for her, he had no patience left for anyone implying that he'd overstepped his station. His eyes narrowed icily. “I
never
attached—”

“Let me be clear.” Her chin raised impossibly higher, her eyes sharp. “I have always held a special affection for you, Nathaniel, and I have always wanted the best for you, including using my influence to make your way easier.”

He glared at her, not knowing what to say to that. Not knowing whether he should thank her or toss her out on her bony, aristocratic ass.

“But I will not let anyone ruin my family's name and reputation by unleashing spurious gossip. Not even you, Nathaniel.”

He forced through clenched teeth, “I am
not
unleashing—”

She slammed her cane against the floor. “The Henley family name is unsullied, and I intend to keep it that way until my last breath!” Spinning on her heel, she stomped from the room, pausing in the doorway to glance back at him with a final warning. “Leave the past alone, and be happy with what you have.”

He stared daggers after her, hearing the thump of her cane into the foyer and out the front door as Hulston scurried to open it.

What the
hell
was that about? He let loose a curse that would have sent the dowager's head spinning. One that did, in fact, make Hulston gasp in the hallway.

He stormed from the drawing room and charged up the stairs three at a time. Blasted aristocrats and their pretentiousness! Damn their arrogance! And for what reason were they special, except to be squeezed from the right woman's womb in the right birth order? Wealth and position unearned. Wholly undeserved. Yet thinking they had the right to reign over everyone else, bending them to their will.

He tore at the buttons of his waistcoat, ripping away two as he hurriedly peeled it off and then set to removing his shirt. The viscountess had always been generous to him. But he'd be damned before he allowed anyone to hold his life hostage, to tell him what he could or could not have.

Including Emily.

She
would
marry him, and he
would
protect her. No matter what he had to do to convince her, no matter how long it took, he wasn't giving up without a fight.

R
eynard Crenshaw raised the teacup to his lips. “I must say, I was quite surprised by recent events.”

So was I
, Emily thought wryly, balancing her own untasted cup of tea on her knees as she sat across from him in the drawing room of Chatham House. Although shocked and terrified would have been a more accurate description. Even now, eight months pregnant, she wasn't used to the idea that she might be carrying a marquess.

As if reading her daughter's worried mind, her mother reached a hand across the settee and squeezed her elbow reassuringly. But the gesture did little to comfort her.

Emily hadn't wanted to attend tea with Mr. Crenshaw, who was Andrew's second cousin and for now the heir presumptive to the late Marquess of Dunwich. The last thing she wanted to do was dredge up bad memories of what happened at Snowden Hall or remind herself of how much danger she and her baby were still in, even though no additional attacks had been made since she arrived in London. But her mother insisted, reminding her that she would need all the help and support she could get from the Crenshaws once her baby was born, especially if it was a boy.

Although, truly, she found the man surprisingly pleasant, given the awkward circumstances.

“I am only a banker,” he explained unassumingly, a faint smile of self-deprecation on his lips. “I find all this a bit overwhelming.”

Emily couldn't help but smile faintly at that, because she'd been just as overwhelmed herself. And certainly, he'd led a quiet existence until he was notified seven months ago that Andrew Crenshaw was dead and that his entire life would be changing forever, only to be told again when she arrived in London that an unborn baby might now stand between him and the inheritance.

“And so,” he continued, “I hope that you will excuse any confusion or misunderstanding on my part as we go forward.”

Her mother smiled. “Only if you excuse any from us.”

He chuckled softly at that, and Emily found herself liking him a great deal, this distinguished man in his late forties, with gray at his temples and a humble bearing. “I very much doubt I will have to do so, Your Grace.”

Despite having a future as uncertain as Emily's, he gave no impression of malice toward her, just as she saw nothing in him to suspect he was responsible for Andrew's murder or the attack against her and Grey.

His son Harold, however, was harder to read. The young man sat quietly at the side of the room and spent most of the afternoon staring out the window. Bored.

An only son in his last year at Cambridge, Harold had yet to determine a career for himself. A few questions asked by her mother at the beginning of the tea to make him feel welcome revealed that he was not interested in a military commission nor a living in the Church. Nor did he seem thrilled to pursue banking with his father, which appeared to be the only choice left to him should Reynard not inherit.

Overall, he appeared sullen and distant, resentful of having to attend the tea instead of spending the day with friends on St. James's Street, and Emily had been relieved when he withdrew to the side of the room to be by himself.

“And now, Lady Emily—” Reynard sent her a warm, friendly smile and pulled her attention back from his son. “We wait for your baby to arrive. In the meantime, I shall enjoy getting to know you and your family better.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed with a soft sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly to hear that. “After all, there is no reason we cannot be amicable, whatever should follow.”

Whatever should follow…
Her mother meant contesting the inheritance should she deliver a boy. Even now her mother worried over securing her daughter's future. Emily looked away, embarrassed—

And caught Harold staring at her coldly. Then he turned back toward the window, once again bored with the conversation.

“I agree, Your Grace.” Reynard set his cup aside. “I want to assure you, Lady Emily, that I will not petition the Privileges for the title should you have a son. No good would come of it.”

“That is very kind of you.” Her mother relaxed, visibly glad not to have a fight on her hands. “Isn't it, Emily?”

“Yes,” she agreed, although she was more relieved at having even this small bit of certainty regarding her baby's birth than at any concern over titles or fortunes. “Very kind.”

A prickle tingled at the back of her neck. She looked up, and this time when she caught Harold's gaze on her, his eyes narrowed icily. And this time, he didn't turn away.

“Further, Lady Emily,” Reynard continued, once more drawing her attention back, “if the child is a girl and the inheritance does come to me, I shall provide her an ample allowance for a comfortable living, tuition for a good education, and eventually a dowry.”

Emily blinked in surprise at the man's unexpected kindness. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Crenshaw.”

“Indeed,” her mother interjected, nearly as surprised as Emily.

“But—” Emily frowned, noticing this time how Harold's cold gaze pinned on his father. “Why would you do such a thing? You're under no obligation.”

“You and your child are family.” He smiled gently at her. “Now, with Andrew's passing, your family should be even more dedicated to helping you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tightening with emotion.

He rose to his feet. “It's time for Harold and me to take our leave. Thank you for a most enjoyable tea, Your Grace.” Reynard bowed to her mother, then to Emily. At his father's signal, Harold stood and sketched a single, shallow bow in her direction that seemed to Emily more mocking than polite. “And my gratitude to you as well, Lady Emily, for a most pleasant afternoon. I hope we shall see each other again soon.”

Easing herself belly-first onto her feet as gracefully as possible, Emily smiled genuinely. “I very much look forward to it.”

“Shall I walk you out, Mr. Crenshaw?” her mother asked.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He offered his arm to her.

When the two men and her mother exited the drawing room, Emily exhaled a heavy sigh of relief that all had gone well, and she reached for the bell pull to summon Jensen to clear away the tea things. Then she began to pace restlessly as she often did of late, her hand going to her round belly.

And it had gotten quite round, in fact, during the past three months since she'd arrived in London. The small bump that had been barely visible at five months even when she was naked had blossomed. No—
blossom
implied something delicate, like a flower. This was…

Good Lord, she felt as big as a house!

Oh, she wasn't, of course, and Yardley, who had arrived in London two days after her and Grey, commented frequently that she should have been much larger, in fact. That she was carrying small. But to Emily, all the changes to her body, the restlessness, and mood swings only magnified one hundredfold as she grew closer to her confinement, and she simply couldn't imagine being even bigger.

Pausing in her pacing, she forced herself to breathe, trying to ease her racing heart.
Smothered
—that's how she felt. Which was most likely why she felt the restless need to move, because if she moved, then she didn't feel so oppressed by the news of her pregnancy, which had sped through London society like a storm, and by the inundation of callers who wanted to see for themselves if the rumors were true. Society matrons, curious old fops, giggling cakes of young ladies—they'd descended upon her like locusts since her return. Worst of all were those old acquaintances she hadn't seen in years who suddenly wanted to strike up new and dear friendships, not one of whom she trusted. After all, Andrew knew the person who had murdered him. The murderer might very well be in London with her now, someone who had even been invited inside her home.

Nor did she like leaving the house these days, which only compounded the smothering oppression weighing upon her shoulders. The bigger her belly grew, the more aware she became of the attention people paid her. And the more vulnerable she felt. Even during something as simple as a walk through Hyde Park, she didn't feel safe unless she had Thomas at her side, because even now she still worried that someone would try to hurt her baby.

Then came the men from the Committee for Privileges. Wanting to assess her situation themselves, they set her down in the library and subjected her to all sorts of indelicate and prying questions about her baby, her marriage, her marital relations…until she'd been beside herself with mortification. Until Thomas nearly threw them out of the house himself.

Thank God for Thomas. What would she have done without him? Although she often wondered who was helping whom recover from the ordeals of the past few months.

“My lady.” Jensen bowed his head to her as he entered the room.

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself quickly and forced a smile, as if she hadn't a care in the world. “Jensen.”

“The afternoon post, ma'am.” He held a silver salver toward her with yet another letter in Grey's familiar handwriting.

Her chest tightened with anguished frustration. Oh,
why
wouldn't the blasted man simply leave her alone?

He hadn't gone to Spain as she'd asked. Oh no—he'd remained right in London, devil take him. And he'd refused to leave her alone. Nearly every day during the past three months, he'd sent flowers and gifts she was forced to return and written notes she refused to answer. Worse, several times each week, he arrived at Chatham House not to visit with Thomas but to ask for her, only to force her to refuse to see him. It was a bittersweet torture, as if he could make her change her mind by simply wearing her down. The only concession she allowed herself was to keep one rose from every bouquet before she returned it, knowing he would never notice that small keepsake missing among the dozens he sent her.

But she couldn't see him. If she saw him, she'd beg to be held, and if he held her—

She pressed the heel of her hand against her chest.
Dear God
, how it hurt!

Even during the ride from Yorkshire, even as she lay in his arms that first night, she knew she'd have to give him up when they reached London. But she'd never imagined the pain would be this wretched. Or that she'd not only have to let him go but be forced to drive him away by making up that horrible excuse that she believed him not good enough for her. Oh, the furthest thing from the truth! Yet she would gladly let him believe the worst of her, taking the full brunt of his anger if it meant securing his future.

And given the choice, she'd rather he hate her now than later, when he realized all he'd lost by marrying her.

“Ma'am?” Jensen prompted gently. Worry darkened his brow.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Drawing a deep breath of resolve, she took the letter and placed it onto the tea table, not having the strength to read it now. Later, when she could lock herself into her room and cry over it, just as she'd done with the others…Her shoulders sagged heavily, exhausted. She rubbed at her forehead as a sharp pain throbbed behind her eyes.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” Jensen frowned. “Should I send for Yardley?”

She smiled weakly, touched by Jensen's concern. “No need. I'm only a little tired.”

Worry crossed his gray brow, but he let the matter drop. “You also have a caller, ma'am.”

“A caller?”
Grey.
Again. Her chest sank, her fatigue growing to the point of tears. Sweet heavens, how much more of this was she expected to bear? She didn't know which one of them would survive the longest in this standoff of wills they'd entered.

She sighed and issued the same order she'd given nearly every day for the past three months. “Please tell Major Grey that I'm not receiving callers.”

“Apologies, ma'am, but it's Her Grace, the Duchess of Strathmore.”