Captain Rakehell (14 page)

“Your dearest—Good God!” Andrew leaped to his feet so suddenly he gave his ankle a wrench he didn’t feel. “You mean him, don’t you? The brute in the black mask!”

“He’s not a brute, he’s a thief! Of course, he can’t stay one, else Papa will never receive him.”

Andrew gaped at her, aghast. “You’re serious!”

“I told you I intend to marry him,” Amanda retorted. “I told Papa, too. And I intend to tell him once I find him.”

Small as Amanda was, Andrew gauged the portmanteau would hold her easily. Not comfortably, but perhaps being bounced all the way to Hampton Hall with the rest of the luggage would jolt her back to her senses. The only flaw in it was eventually she’d have to be let out, so he discarded the notion. Regretfully. But the moment it took him to do so allowed him to gather his wits.

“Are you certain of your feelings for this man?”

“Oh, yes,” Amanda gushed, her eyes shining. “He’s everything Lord Earnshaw isn’t. Brave and honest—”

“Now there’s something original—an honest thief.” Andrew forced a bantering tone into his voice. “I wonder what the marriage settlement will be? The silver or Mama’s jewels.”

“Please don’t tease, Andy,” Amanda chided. “How am I going to find him?”

“Perhaps if I had his name, I could make inquiries.”

“I only know the name of his horse,” she replied sheepishly.

“Too bad we can’t ask Smythe. Same livelihood. Bound to know one another.”

“I’ve thought of that, and it occurs to me—”

“Don’t!” Andrew leveled his index finger at her. “Just tend to the packing and let me tend to the thinking. And if Papa returns before I do, dub yer mummer about your—er—dearest darling. One hurdle at a time.”

Amanda swore to keep her mummer dubbed, and Andrew ordered his bays put to his curricle. He intended to present himself in Bow Street before Mayfair and, with any luck, to Mr. Gerald Fisk. Surely Amanda’s dearest darling couldn’t be that hard to find. How many thieves, after all, rode the streets of London in a black silk mask?

Chapter Thirteen

How to make her love the right him, the real him?

The question kept Lesley awake the remainder of the night. It was a simplification, really, for Amanda did love the real him—but didn’t know it— and justifiably hated the wrong him. The problem was how to switch places with himself. It confused even Lesley when he considered it in its long form, hence the simplification.

The note intercepted by Lord Hampton was the first step toward wheedling his way into Amanda’s good graces. The second was ordering the removal of the horrid waistcoats to the dustbin, a task which brought a grin to the face of the normally dour Packston. He skipped over the third, the promised call on Lord Cottingham, to consider the fourth—Bow Street, Mr. Fisk, and Smythe—while Packston shaved and dressed him.

For catching up the pesky thief, Lesley decided, would do more to win Amanda’s heart than anything else. It would also rid him of Fisk and free his mind to dwell on more important matters—Amanda’s bride gift and where he would take her on their wedding trip. Italy, he thought, or perhaps the Greek Islands.

Once done with Bow Street, he ought to consult his man of business. No doubt there were changes Amanda would want to make here in Mayfair and at Braxton Hall to the apartment kept for him there. But no, a house of their own would be more the thing, for the children would drive Charles to distraction. Which reminded him he must take his brother to task in the matter of their mother and the family capital.

His head filled with plans, Lesley descended the stairs. He reached the foyer just as his butler opened the door to Mr. Gerald Fisk, his walking stick in one hand, his card, ready to present, in the other. He was, as he’d been the other day, dressed all in gray.

“You’ve saved me a trip, Fisk, for I was just on my way to see you.”

“Like minds, my lord.” He swept off his hat, but kept it and his stick and followed Lesley into a small parlor.

“Not feeling discreet today, eh?” he remarked jovially, as he closed the door and stepped away from it. “I’d have thought you’d present yourself in the kitchens, or at least in disguise.”

“Being discreet requires time, which I’m presently in short supply of, my lord.” Fisk stopped in the middle of the room, turned a half circle, and nodded at the second door in an interior wall. “I trust that leads to the back of the house and the servant’s entrance?”

“It does.”

“I shall be leaving that way, then, for you’ll shortly be receiving another caller. I did my best to see Viscount Welsey detained, but as he kicked up a bit of a dust at the delay, I doubt my associates will be able to keep him long at Bow Street.”

“What the devil is Welsey doing there?”

Fisk turned to face him, a smile lifting the corners of his gray eyes. “Demanding the immediate arrest of the gentleman thief who wears a black silk mask and rides a black stallion.”

“Good God!” Lesley exclaimed incredulously.

“You seem surprised, my lord. What did you expect he would do after witnessing his sister’s abduction? A skillful piece of riding, by the way.”

“You were there?”

“I said I would be. Deftly done, but you chose to snatch up the wrong quarry.”

“There
was
no choice,” Lesley retorted sharply, taking a menacing step toward him. “The lady is my betrothed.”

“I also have it from Welsey,” Fisk replied, holding his ground, “that he and Lady Amanda were present in your mother’s garden. She was intent then on capturing Smythe, and still is, her brother assures me. Why in heaven’s name, if you knew the blackguard’s name, didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask his name,” Lesley shot back. “You asked my help in catching him up. Extorted it, rather, and it’s since occurred to me that there must be a law prohibiting blackmail!”

“There is, my lord,” Fisk snapped belligerently. “Just as there is a law against dueling!”

Glaring implacably at one another, they stood nose to nose, or rather Fisk’s nose to Lesley’s second shirt stud, until there came a knock at the door.

“What is it, Benson?”

“The Viscount Welsey, my lord,” came the butler’s muffled voice through the door.

“Show him to the library. I’ll join him shortly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you have another reason for coming?” Lesley demanded of Fisk. “If so, state it quickly.”

“Only this,” he answered curtly. “Brave as she may be, Lady Amanda is a distraction and a nuisance. Persuade her to leave off her reckless pursuit of Smythe, or persuade her to repair elsewhere until he is caught up. I’ve enough on my plate just now. And so, my lord, do you.”

“Like minds again,” Lesley quipped acidly, “for I intend to see one or the other accomplished by day’s end.”

“‘T’would be better to see Smythe in Newgate.” With a brusque nod, Fisk crossed the room and looked back at Lesley with one hand on the knob. “He’d be there now if you’d nabbed him when you had the chance.”

“Nabbing him is your job, Fisk.”

“So it is.” He acknowledged Lesley’s parry with a slight bow. “Touché, my lord, and good day.”

“It
was
a good day,” Lesley muttered, striding purposefully from the parlor toward the library.

Andrew came to his feet as Lesley entered the room, feeling a touch of unease at the base of his spine at the muscle leaping in Lesley’s jaw and the smolder in his eyes. He’d expected to be received by the fribble with the quizzing glass, not a Corinthian turned out in the highest kick of fashion. Had be forgotten himself again, Andrew wondered, noting the absence of his cane.

“Welsey.” Lesley greeted him with a tight smile and his hand outstretched. “Good of you to call.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” replied Andrew, wincing at the strength in his grip. “I see you’ve recovered from your indisposition of last evening.”

“‘Twas a momentary thing.” Lesley waved him into the leather chair he’d risen from and seated himself in its companion. “May I offer you coffee? Or a brandy, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you. I won’t take much of your time.”

“I’ve all day,” Lesley assured him. “Did Amanda enjoy the remainder of the ball?”

“Oh, quite,” Andrew lied easily, for he’d expected the question. “Danced with so many fellows I lost count.”

“Excellent.” Lesley leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, made a fist, and propped his chin on his knuckles. “I’m delighted my leave taking didn’t spoil her evening.”

Though he smiled and seemed quite relaxed, he did not sound the least bit delighted. There was an edge in his voice and a faint yellow smear on the side of his jaw. The remnant, Andrew guessed, of a fading bruise.

“She was a bit downpin at first,” he replied, “but she plucked up soon enough.”

“Oh, good. I shouldn’t want a wife who isn’t plucky.”

“That’s Amanda,” Andrew agreed cheerfully. “Pluck to the bone.”

“Splendid. Then we shall deal very well together.”

Damn the man, Andrew swore under his breath, he wasn’t making this easy. Agreeable as he appeared, the curtness of his replies and the intensity of his gaze had turned Andrew’s palms clammy. This was the Lord Earnshaw who’d fought two duels, he thought, wondering if he’d find himself at dawn on a foggy patch of ground with a pistol in his hand for what he was about to say. But no, he decided. This was also the Lord Earnshaw who’d played Amanda false, who no more wanted his sister than she wanted him.

“It’s about Amanda that I’ve come, actually,” he said.

“I’d assumed as much,” Lesley replied, and waited, the mildness in his voice belying the agitation gnawing at him. The problem of how to straighten things out with Amanda was taking on monumental proportions, and that Welsey was about to drop another complication in his lap he had no doubt.

“It’s a matter of some delicacy,” Andrew went on, clasping his hands upon his crossed knees and striving to appear as calm as Lord Earnshaw. “When Amanda confided it to me, I volunteered to speak to you. It seemed a thing best discussed between gentlemen.”

“Of course.” Lesley nodded, noting the emphasis he gave the word gentlemen. “Then may I suggest you state it plainly.”

He meant get to the point, and Andrew decided that course was best. If things went badly, he would at least have the rest of the day to round up his seconds.

“Simply, then, Amanda does not wish to marry you. She holds you in the highest regard, but she has bestowed her affections elsewhere.”

“You mean she’s in love with someone else?” Lesley managed, calmly enough.

“That’s putting it rather baldly, my lord, but yes.”

Lesley thought, rather he hoped—no, damn it to hell and back, he prayed with every fiber of his being—that Amanda was in love with the man in the black mask. But was she? That Welsey had just come from Bow Street seemed to suggest that she’d confided her lover’s identity; but on the other hand, no gentleman in his right mind could possibly approve such a match, or would take it upon himself to act as go-between to bring it about.

No, no, he had the leads crossed again. If Welsey approved the liaison, he wouldn’t have demanded his arrest. That seemed to point toward an unknown third party. Was there such a man, or was he merely confused again?

“It quite stunned me as well,” Andrew went on, growing nervous at Lord Earnshaw’s lengthy and perplexed silence. “Dashed poor timing, as her engagement to you has been announced, but I reckon the heart pays no heed to propriety. The only solution seemed to be to ask you to do the gentlemanly thing.”

Lord Earnshaw’s gaze had drifted away from him but swung so abruptly and fiercely back that Andrew started visibly. “Are you asking me to step aside?”

“Er”—he swallowed hard—”yes, my lord, I am.”

“And what does Lord Hampton say to this?”

“I hoped—or rather, Amanda hoped—that if you agreed he would as well.”

But he was not certain of it, for his eyes did not quite meet his. He could probably badger the truth out of him, but Lesley chose not to. The courage it had taken Welsey to come here and plead his sister’s case deserved that much of his respect, at least. And the truth was best sought at its source.

“I have no wish to press my suit—if it is, as you say, unwanted—yet I must confess that I am devastated.”

Caught flat by the revelation, Andrew sat bolt upright in his chair. His reaction told Lesley he’d come here expecting instant capitulation. The realization made him feel angry—very, very angry—and very perverse.

“I have told the truth, my lord,” Andrew retorted indignantly. “Do you mean to say otherwise?”

“Certainly not.” Lesley laid his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers over his waistcoat. “For I doubt Amanda would ever forgive me if I presented your corpse as her bride gift.”

And neither would I, thought Andrew, resisting the horrified urge he felt to clap both hands over his mouth.

“What I mean to say is that I’m not feeling particularly gentlemanly today. Perhaps I will tomorrow.” Lesley paused and shrugged. “But perhaps not.”

“Is that the answer you wish me to give Amanda?”

“Yes.” Lord Earnshaw smiled at him. “I believe it is.” It was not a particularly pleasant smile.

“But you will consider the matter?”

“I suppose I shall have to.” Lesley stood and sighed. “Although I can’t promise I will.”

“I see,” Andrew said, but rose to his feet not at all sure he did.

“Do drop by anytime.” Hooking his hand around Andrew’s elbow, Lesley marched him double time out of the library and into the foyer. “Always a pleasure.”

“Thank you, my lord, but—oomph!” The breath went out of him as Lord Earnshaw swept Andrew’s curled beaver hat off a table, shoved it into his chest, flung open the door, and pushed him outside.

“Do give Amanda my best.” Lesley slammed the door in Andrew’s startled face, then sprang up the stairs two at a time shouting for Packston.

The valet met him in the doorway of his dressing room. “Yes, m’lord?”

“The buff pantaloons and shirt I had you put in the luggage boot of the carriage last night. Where are they?”

“In the dustbin,” Packston replied archly, “with the rest of the rubbish.”