Tempting a Proper Lady Page 8

  “Very,” Annabelle agreed.

  Cilla frowned down at the two missives. One bore her mother’s distinctive script, but the other had clearly been penned by a man. The bold, slashing letters were unfamiliar. She opened her mother’s first.

  “Never mind that one. Open the other one,” Annabelle urged.

  “My mother has invited me to dinner on Friday evening,” Cilla said, scanning the note.

  “That’s your free day, so I don’t see any problem with that,” Dolly said.

  “I shall have to write back to her.” Cilla set down the letter and picked up the other.

  Annabelle leaned over the pile of invitations and tilted her head to try and read the note Cilla had set down. “Oh! She’s invited Lieutenant Allerton for you!”

  “Annabelle!” Dolly exclaimed. “Where are your manners?”

  “I’m sorry.” She sat back in her seat. “Please tell me you’re not angry, Mrs. Burke. I’m just so excited that you have a beau!”

  “You could have simply asked me to see it,” Cilla said. “And the lieutenant is hardly a beau.” Then she opened the second communication.

  “May I see it?” Annabelle asked.

  Without looking up from the second note, Cilla handed the first across the table. She barely heard Annabelle’s comments to Dolly about the dinner invitation. It was the words on the other note that captured her complete attention.

  Please join me for a picnic lunch on Friday to continue our conversation in a more private setting as we discussed. I will send a carriage for you at noon.

  To continue our conversation in a more private setting as we discussed. The note had to be from Samuel. She had not promised a private meeting on Friday to anyone else.

  A picnic? Such an odd venue for a business conversation—though it would certainly be private. Remembering his flirtatious mien during their time in the garden, her heartbeat sped up. Certainly he did not intend anything improper at their meeting.

  Did he?

  Did she want him to?

  “Mama, she’s blushing!” Annabelle’s voice shook her free of her increasingly heated reverie.

  “She certainly is.” Grinning from ear to ear, Dolly said, “I’m betting that one is from a certain gentleman, isn’t it, Cilla?”

  Cilla fumbled with the note, trying to refold it. “Yes, it is from a gentleman.”

  “I knew it! It’s the lieutenant, isn’t it?” Annabelle crowed. “Can I read it?”

  “Not this one.” Cilla tucked the note away in her pocket.

  “Oh.” Annabelle’s face fell.

  Cilla held out her hand. “May I have the note from my mother, please? I need to respond to her invitation.”

  “Sure thing.” Annabelle handed over the other note and watched Cilla tuck it away. “But you can’t fool me. Your hand is shaking, and you’re blushing fit to bust.”

  “Nonsense.” Yet her face heated from chin to hairline.

  “Ah, sweet love,” Dolly said, and began sorting invitations again with a knowing smile curling her lips. “What else do we have on the schedule today, Cilla?”

  Grateful for the change in subject, Cilla eagerly glanced at her notes. “After the dressmaker, we are scheduled for tea with Lady Iften at five o’clock.”

  “Lady Iften.” Dolly sighed. “And her five giggling daughters.”

  “They are the earl’s cousins,” Cilla reminded her. “And Annabelle’s bridesmaids.”

  “I need bridesmaids, Mama,” Annabelle said. “We didn’t bring anyone from home so we have to use Richard’s family.”

  “I know,” Dolly said. “I just wish they weren’t so…cheerful. It sounds like a gaggle of geese have invaded the house!”

  Annabelle stifled a laugh. “They’re not that bad, Mama. Most of them are very sweet. Except that Edith. I don’t like her much, but I didn’t know how to leave her out without offending someone.”

  “Edith, Eliza, Elinor, Emily, and—who was the other one?” Dolly asked.

  “Esther,” Annabelle said.

  “Yes, Esther. Why would a woman name all her daughters with the same letter at the beginning of their names? Makes no sense to me at all. Here, Cilla.” She pushed a stack of unopened missives toward her. “You start on this pile. I hope to have our responses written out before we leave for Madame Legere’s.”

  “Maybe you can answer your own letters as well,” Annabelle teased.

  Cilla accepted the stack of invitations and began tearing them open, hoping her duty would help her ignore the note in her pocket.

  And the man who had sent it.

  “A picnic? Do you think that is wise?” Stripped down to his shirtsleeves, John circled in a defensive position, hands spread in preparation to fend off an attack.

  “It’s perfect,” Samuel replied. Also in shirtsleeves, he kept pace with his friend, watching for an opening. A good spar was just what he needed. “We’ll be out in the middle of nowhere. No one will see us. No one will ever suspect she’s helping me stop the wedding.”

  “But it is my job to find the nowhere,” John grumbled.

  Samuel jabbed, and John dodged. “What’s wrong with here?” Samuel asked, circling again.

  “Here? We’re in the middle of a bloody meadow.”

  “Seems like the perfect picnic place to me.” He swung again, and again John eluded. “Besides, you picked this meadow.”

  “You said you wanted to spar outdoors, in a place where the servants would not gossip about it. This is outdoors, and no one is around for miles.”

  “Can you suggest a better place for a secret picnic?”

  They paced each other. “It just seems rather…open,” John said.

  Samuel stopped and straightened. “I can’t meet her at the house or a public restaurant or hotel where someone might see us together. Aside from the fact that it would reveal our relationship, her reputation could be damaged.”

  “And you care about that?” John straightened as well, though he kept a wary eye on his opponent.

  “Of course I care! I need the woman’s help; I don’t want to harm her.”

  “And an intimate picnic is the way to convince her to help you.”

  “Intimate? I’m trying to create a relaxing setting.” His mind flashed to last night in the garden, those searing moments of madness when she had touched his mouth—and he had for one moment entertained the fantasy of where he really wanted her to put her hand. He pushed the memory away, settling back into fighting stance and forcing himself to think about the present. “Come now. Are we doing this or not?”

  “You are the one who keeps going on about the widow.” John flashed a grin and took his position again. “Comely thing, isn’t she? Just be sure she does not get too relaxed.”

  Damn John’s perception. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You have been on an island for nearly two years, Captain. No one would fault you for a pleasant tumble with a fetching woman like Mrs. Burke.”

  “I would.” At least afterward. He lunged at John.

  John twisted out of the way at the last second, then blocked Samuel’s punch with his arm. “Why? Your betrothal has ended. You are not committed to any other woman. Do not try and tell me you do not want to taste her charms.”

  “Of course I want her. I’m not dead.” Spurred by his own frustrations, Samuel landed a punch on John’s ribs a little harder than he’d intended.

  The slender man sidestepped out of range, pressing a hand to his rib cage. “Then why not enjoy her company?” John came back swinging. His blow glanced off Samuel’s jawbone as Samuel tried to dodge.

  Samuel moved his jaw from side to side to ease the sting—and to be certain it still worked. “Damn it, you are relentless.”

  “Just making sure you know your own mind.”

  “Of course I do.” Samuel rubbed the sore spot on his face.

  “You know, Annabelle was a sweet farm girl. She had no idea how the world worked. Now the widow Burke—” John gave an appre
ciative chuckle. “There’s a woman who knows how things are.”

  Samuel scowled and settled back into position. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said.” John’s mouth curved in a wicked grin. “No doubt she would be glad of a bit of passion to liven up her life. And she is a widow, so as long as you are discreet, there’s no harm to anyone.”

  The same thoughts had occurred to him—more than once. But he had chosen his path, and he would keep to it. “I told you, ours is a business relationship.”

  “In that case, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I had a go at her.” The words had barely left his mouth before Samuel struck. John reeled backward and clapped a hand to his bloodied lip. “Then again, maybe you would.”

  “She’s a paid employee. She hardly chose this situation,” Samuel said. “I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head about her. She can’t help the position I’m putting her in.”

  “Ha, and which position would that be?” When Samuel glared and took a step toward him, John held up one hand in surrender, the other pressed against his lip. “All I’m saying is this: You are no longer engaged to Annabelle, so it would hardly be out of line to seek some comfort from the lovely Mrs. Burke, for purely physical reasons if nothing else.”

  “How the devil did we get onto this subject?’ Samuel snapped.

  “You started it, mooning on about the picnic you are planning.”

  “I’m not mooning,” Samuel grumbled. “I need Mrs. Burke’s help to stop the wedding. However attractive she is—”

  “And a widow,” John reminded him again.

  “—despite being a widow, I have no intention of taking advantage of her.”

  “Now that is a shame. But then again, perhaps it is best not to mix business and pleasure.”

  “Exactly. Now let’s change the subject. Have you looked into those orphanages of Raventhorpe’s?”

  “I have. On paper they look legitimate. I would have to go there to tell if anything is not what it seems.”

  “Plan on doing that. Soon.”

  “And leave you all alone to fend for yourself? You would be lost without me.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Grinning with an amusement that grated against Samuel’s battle-scarred will, John fell back into defense posture. “In that case—prove it, my friend. It seems to me in the absence of a dalliance with the widow Burke, a bout of sparring is just what you need.”

  Samuel smiled slowly. “First man down buys the ale.”

  “Done.”

  They took their positions again, circled.

  John’s grin had a gleeful mischief to it, a taunt ready on his lips. Suddenly his expression changed. “Get down!” he shouted, then leaped for Samuel just as a gunshot cracked across the meadow.

  Their horses, tied to a nearby tree, shrieked in alarm. John rolled off Samuel. “Are you hit?”

  “No.” Samuel rolled onto his stomach, then started inching forward on his elbows toward his discarded coat—and the pistol that lay with it. “Where is he?”

  “Just in those trees I think.” John gestured toward a small wood, then reached down and slid his weapon of choice—a slender but well-made dagger—from the strap inside his boot. “I’ll go around these rocks over here and get behind him. Watch my back.”

  “John, no,” Samuel hissed, but his friend ignored him and headed out, using the nearby rocks as cover. “Damn it.” Samuel braced himself, then shot to his feet, racing for his coat while trying to stay as low as possible. He dove for the garment, finding the familiar shape of the pistol even as another shot rang out.

  Brandishing the weapon, he looked up and studied the trees John had indicated. A glimmer of sunlight reflecting off something metallic alerted him to the shooter’s location. He got to his feet and ran alongside the rocks toward the shooter.

  As he neared the trees, a soft whistle reached his ears. Then John emerged from the wood, the rifle in his hands pointed at the back of a fellow dressed in the simple coat of a working man.

  Relief unwound some of the tension in Samuel’s shoulders. “Well, what have you there?”

  “I thought it wise to relieve this gentleman of his rifle,” John answered, as calmly as if they spoke of tobacco brands. “He seemed uncertain of his aim.”

  “Wise indeed,” Samuel agreed. “You there. Why are you shooting at me?”

  The gunman sent him a sullen glare and remained silent.

  “Talkative fellow, isn’t he?” Samuel said.

  “Quite.” John poked the fellow in the back with the rifle. “Answer him.”

  “I was paid to do it.” The shooter spat at Samuel’s feet. “Filthy American swine.”

  “Who paid you?” Samuel demanded.

  Their attacker remained silent, though if looks could kill, Samuel would have shriveled into a corpse.

  “As if we couldn’t guess,” John said. “I suppose we should take him to the magistrate.”

  “I agree. Let me go fetch my coat.” Samuel headed back toward his coat and hat, still piled in the middle of the meadow.

  He was halfway there when he heard John shout. The rifle fired. Samuel pivoted and ran back the way he had come, where John and the shooter wrestled for the rifle. He stopped and aimed his pistol. “John!”

  The stranger glanced back over his shoulder and saw Samuel poised to fire. He felled John with a hard shove and took off, the rifle sailing through the air and landing on the nearby grass just beyond John’s reach.

  Samuel fired, but just missed the fellow as he disappeared into the wood. Cursing beneath his breath, he raced forward and crouched beside his friend. “John, are you all right?”

  “Yes.” It was the tone of disgust in his voice that convinced Samuel he was unhurt. “Bloody hell, he’s getting away!”

  The distant sound of hoofbeats reached their ears. “I’d say he’s already gone,” Samuel said. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

  “I’m hardly an invalid.” Brushing away his captain’s hand, John slowly climbed to his feet. “Bastard took me by surprise.” He swiped his hands over his clothing, clearing crushed grass and leaves from the material. “You know Raventhorpe had to have sent him.”

  “Of course. His Lordship is nothing if not tenacious.” Samuel stared off in the direction where the man had fled. “But there’s no way to prove anything. We had best watch our backs from now on.”

  “Agreed.” John raised a brow. “So, does this make me the first one down?”

  Samuel’s mouth twitched. “Considering you knocked me down earlier, I’d say I was the first one down.”

  “Good, then you buy the ale.”

  “Done.” Samuel turned away. “I’ll fetch our coats, and we can be gone from this place.”

  “Good idea.” John picked up the rifle and hefted it in his hands, testing the balance.

  Samuel started across the field, then stopped. “Oh, and John…I believe you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “This is a very bad place for a picnic.”

  John grinned. “Maybe next time you will heed my advice before all hell rains down upon us.”

  Grinning, Samuel continued across the field, pistol in hand. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Lady Iften’s brood of daughters resembled one another to a shocking degree, Cilla thought, all of them blond and blue-eyed and so pale as to look positively ghostlike. Each one was tall and skinny with the distinctive beak of a nose that characterized the Raventhorpe family—like a flock of storks that had descended upon the blue drawing room.

  Except for Edith. While as blond and pale as her sisters, she had been blessed with a sweet feminine bump of a nose and a mouth curved like cupid’s bow, lending her a delicate loveliness that branded her the clear beauty of the group.

  And she knew it.

  “Now, Annabelle, you must allow that I know more about these things than you do,” Edith was saying. “Why, you are new to fashionable society. I am
certain you will agree that the peach silk will wash out my fair complexion. Certainly you can select another color for my dress.”

  “I thought the peach was lovely,” Annabelle said. “I liked it so much I ordered an evening dress made from it for after the wedding.”

  “The color looked very well on you,” Cilla said.

  Edith glared at Cilla. “Kindly do not interrupt, Mrs. Burke.” She turned her attention back to Annabelle. “My dear cousin-to-be, you must allow that your coloring is vastly different than mine.”

  “But you’re both blond,” Dolly said, a wrinkle of confusion appearing between her brows. “Seems like what would look good on one should look good on the other, don’t you think?”

  Edith let out a trilling laugh that she had no doubt practiced in front of her mirror. “Oh, Mrs. Bailey! Why, my hair is closer to moonbeam, while Annabelle’s is…yes, wild honey, that’s it. A very dark blond, nearly brown.”

  Cilla rolled her eyes and glanced down at her hands before anyone could notice. She had run across her own selection of selfish debutantes in her day, but Edith might top them all.

  “I never thought of it that way,” Annabelle said. Cilla heard the hitch in her voice and looked up, trying to catch the girl’s eye. Don’t let her do this to you.

  “And your complexion is much more robust than mine,” Edith continued. “After all, you were raised on a farm in the country, so you have a certain pinkness to your skin that someone raised in the drawing rooms of London would not.” She smiled sweetly, as if to distract from the acid in her tone.

  “Perhaps Edith is right,” one of the sisters said. Esther? Eliza?

  “Of course, I am right,” Edith said. “What do you think, Mama?”

  Lady Iften looked up from the ladies’ magazine she was perusing. “Your taste is impeccable, my dear, as well you know.”

  “What color would you prefer?” Annabelle asked quietly.

  “Perhaps a shade of bronze or dark purple,” Edith mused.

  “Such as royalty might wear?” Cilla said. When Edith whipped her head around to glare, Cilla met and held her gaze. She wasn’t the same scared debutante she had once been.