A Reckless Beauty (6 page)

Fanny opened her mouth, but Rian’s elbow was in her ribs before any words could come out, so she merely inclined her head slightly, mockingly, in his lordship’s direction.

“My stars, Valentine, you weren’t funning me, were you? And you expect me to, as you begged me,
do something
with that? My stars!”

Fanny’s attention went immediately to the couch and the petite young woman sitting there, at the moment waving a black-edged lace handkerchief beneath her softly rounded chin. The woman was handsome rather than beautiful—there was too much of her brother in her for beautiful—and dressed in the most becoming mourning black London could fashion.

Not that she held a patch on Brede himself, who was also in black, his linen white as a gull’s wing, his streaked light brown hair ruthlessly combed back from his face. Rough and tumble, dirty, he was formidable. Dressed as he was now, he was truly frightening. And, again, those eyes. And that dangerous, smiling mouth…

“Ma’am,” Fanny said, caught between a bow and a curtsey, so that she nearly tripped over her own two feet, eliciting a short bark of laughter from the Earl.

“Did you see that, Valentine? Oh, my stars!”

“Lucille, if you could dispense with that repetitious and quite annoying exclamation, so that we might move on? Lieutenant Rian Becket, Miss Fanny Becket, you are in the presence of my younger sister, one Lady Lucille Blight, widow of the late and largely unlamented Viscount Whalley, although she is quite enjoying her blacks, aren’t you, Lucille? Please, Miss Becket, don’t attempt that maneuver again—you may injure yourself.”

“Valentine, you’re such a wicked tease,” the woman said, waving at Fanny. “Please, call me Lucie. Everyone does. Everyone save Valentine, but I pay him no never mind, although he is quite right about poor William. I don’t know what possessed me to think I had to have him, and all over my dear brother’s objections. He drank like a fish, you understand, and chased anything in skirts. Oh, don’t scowl so, Valentine, it’s not as if no one knows. And aren’t you pretty, Lieutenant? Valentine—isn’t the Lieutenant pretty? You couldn’t give me him, could you, and just keep the girl for yourself? You go about looking nearly as bedraggled half the time anyway. I mean, she’s wearing
trousers.
My stars!”

Fanny, unable to help herself, actually snorted, and Rian rushed into speech to cover her rudeness. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said for lack of anything more intelligent springing into his mind, bowing yet again. “My lord, again I apologize for the monstrous inconvenience my sister and I have put you to, and I would like to say that I am more than cognizant of your forbearance and—”

“Oh, for the love of heaven, Becket, shut up,” Brede said wearily, looking at Fanny. “Lucille, what do you think? Can you rescue that?”

“In time for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball this Saturday night? That’s only four days away. Oh, I hardly think so, Valentine. My stars. When have you known me to perform miracles?”

Brede smiled slightly. “A miracle? Surely, Lucille, you don’t see Miss Becket here as on a par with loaves and fishes?”

Lucie gnawed on the side of her index finger as she looked at Fanny, who was caught between amusement and longing to wring the Ogre’s neck with his own snowy cravat. “I suppose a bath might be of some small help? And then I could have my Frances attempt something with the hair. And there’s this lovely little modiste a few blocks from—Yes, all right, Valentine, if I must. I shall gather all of my depleted strength and attempt to do my best.”

This last was completed with the tragic pose and half-gulping voice of the truly put-upon, and Fanny looked at Rian, whose shoulders were shaking as he attempted to tamp down his mirth at her expense.

“That’s my brave Lucille. The trials you endure for your quarterly allowance,” Brede said bracingly, wondering idly if he was right as to Bonaparte’s current position, and the possibility of riding there, lashing himself to the mouth of one of the French cannon. “You’re dismissed.”

Lady Whalley got to her feet, clearly in a huff. “Dismissed, is it? You drag me away from a perfectly marvelous lamb cutlet, just to dismiss me? Oh, very well.” She looked to Fanny yet again. “Tomorrow. But no one can see her until I work this miracle you require of me. Bring her round to the servant’s entrance tomorrow morning at eleven.
Clean,
if possible.”

Fanny didn’t bother to either curtsey or bow as Lady Whalley swept out of the small room, trailing her ruffled black skirts and enough scent to make a meal of by itself, and then turned back to glare at the Ogre. “Definitely your sister, my lord. There’s no question there.”

Brede ignored her, the cheeky brat. When forced to deal with females, ignoring them had always topped his list of the ways preferable to him. “Lieutenant, you will accompany me tomorrow morning at precisely eight of the clock. You’ll be quartered with other more junior members of the Duke’s staff, which means the food will be good and the beds dry. Take any opportunity to ride out these next few days, familiarize yourself with the topography of the area—I suggest you concentrate on the area south of Brussels, all the way to Quatre Bras, Ligny, and beyond—as I expect you’ll be traveling that ground quite often in the next week or two. But keep an eye out for Boney’s advance parties. I last spied one only a few miles below Givet. He’s been there before with his army, years ago. But he won’t wait for us to come to him there, fight on traditionally French soil. For the moment, I suggest you scare up Wiggins from where he’s hiding himself and he’ll show you to your chamber. The same goes for you, Miss Becket.”

“I’ll want a bath,” Fanny dared.

“If you are applying for my opinion, I completely concur. However, I do not number that among my duties to Jack Eastwood. There are other females in this house—I’m sure I’ve glimpsed at least two of them. Go find one, Miss Becket, and beg a tub. Difficult as this may be for you to comprehend, I have other things to do.”

Fanny watched, her mouth screwed to one side, her fists jammed on her hips, as the Earl of Brede quit the room in much the same way his sister had moments earlier. The sound of the door to the street slamming behind him lent her the happy information that the Ogre was gone.

She turned to Rian and grinned. “Papa would adore him, wouldn’t he?”

Rian gave a single shake of his head. “If he didn’t kill him, yes.”

W
IGGINS HAD WORKED
a small miracle of his own, Fanny decided the next morning as she donned the freshly laundered and pressed gown she’d rolled up and stuffed in her pack. She’d had a bath last night before slipping in between clean, fresh-smelling sheets, and felt very nearly human again. Her only regret was that she’d slept the sleep of the dead until nine, which meant that Rian had gone off without saying goodbye to her.

But she’d find him again, she had no fears there. After all, she’d found him before, hadn’t she?

After breakfasting in her chamber, something she did at Becket Hall only if she was ill or, when younger, when being punished for something or other and temporarily not allowed to “associate with reasonable human beings,” she made her way downstairs, leaving her pack and uniform behind her, for Wiggins had promised he’d have the pack sent round to Lady Lucille’s later in the day. She’d miss those trousers.

She’d only just entered the small drawing room, wondering when the Ogre would make an appearance and toss her off to his sister, when the Earl, in the act of passing by the entrance, saw her. Stopped. Walked into the room.

She narrowed her eyes, daring him to say anything cutting.

He was dressed in buckskins and a dark blue superfine jacket, and still held a small riding crop in his right hand. He smelled vaguely of horse and tobacco and sunlight, and she knew he’d been out and about, delivering Rian to Wellington’s headquarters.

“My lord,” she said, dropping into a very abbreviated curtsey. “Rian is now situated with—”

“Hush,” he said, using the riding crop to tilt up her chin as he examined her, head-to-toe. He walked slowly around her, and she was rather forced to turn with him until he allowed the riding crop to slide from her chin to her modestly revealed shoulder, skim across her back, and finally come to rest against the base of her throat before he, now standing in front of her once more, removed it. “I was afraid of this,” he said at last. “The hair remains an issue, naturally, but you’re quite attractive in that gown, Miss Becket.”

Would he stop looking at her that way! The way, she realized, her cheeks flushing, she was looking at him!

“And…and that’s made you unhappy, my lord?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze from his.

“Uncomfortable, Miss Becket,” he said, abruptly turning away from her to pick up a folded newspaper that someone had placed on the table between the couches. Reading whatever ridiculousness the French newspapers were spouting now was much preferable to looking into those exotic green eyes. “There’s a difference. How old are you?”

Fanny felt herself bristling. But he’d been nice to Rian, and he still hadn’t said anything about sending her back to England, so she bit down her anger. “Twenty, my lord.”

Then she lifted her chin, the chin she’d swiped at the moment he’d taken away the riding crop. She had needed the feel of him gone. It had been bad enough, looking into his tired, hazel eyes, and when she’d transferred her gaze to his full mouth that had been…well, that had been worse, although she wasn’t sure why. She merely knew that the Earl of Brede bothered her. More than a bit.

“Twenty? My, my,” Brede said, dropping the newspaper back onto the tabletop as he looked at her again. “Quite ancient.”

“Not nearly as ancient as you, my lord,” she said, tiring of this dance he seemed to be doing around her.

“True, Miss Becket. I’m two and thirty, and many mornings feel twice that. This morning, alas, being one of them. Tell me, what did you use to hack at that lovely blond hair? A dull sickle?”

“Frances will fix it.”

Brede frowned. “I beg your pardon? Frances?”

“Your sister’s maid, or whoever she meant. Lady Whalley mentioned her by name last night. Weren’t you listening?”

“I make it a practice to never listen to Lucille,” Brede said, smiling at last. “Let that be my advice to you, my dear. You’ll thank me for it. Never listen to Lucille. She’ll only depress you.”

“Really? Oh, my stars!” Fanny exclaimed, her hands to her breast, and then laughed.

And Brede laughed with her.

Which, as it happened, left Wiggins quite nonplussed as he stood at the entrance to the drawing room, clearly unaccustomed to seeing his employer in such a good humor. “Um…my lord?” he asked, as if unsure of the smiling man’s identity.

“Wiggins, yes,” Brede said, collecting himself. “You’re here to say the carriage is waiting, aren’t you? But Miss Becket has voiced a desire to see more of the city, so we’ll walk to Lady Whalley’s instead.”

Fanny looked at him quizzically. What on earth was the man about now?

“Um…certainly, sir.”

“Ah, my wishes meet with your approval, Wiggins. How reassuring.” Brede extended his arm to Fanny, who hesitated only a moment before slipping her arm through his elbow. “We won’t mention your sad lack of a bonnet, Miss Becket.”

“
We
just did, my lord Brede,” she pointed out cheekily as Wiggins raced ahead to open the door leading down to the flagway. “Oh, what a beautiful day. Look at these grand old buildings. And all the flowers, all the different colors. Everywhere! It’s difficult to believe danger could be so close, isn’t it?”

“So very close, yes,” Brede agreed, looking down at her as she lifted her face to the sun. Smudged, grubby, she had been interesting, different, almost exotic. But the miracle of soap and water seemed to, for the moment, rival that of the loaves and little fishes, for she was now radiant. Young, eager, so very alive. Fearless. And dangerous.

He must be exhausted from too many months spent watching Napoleon’s maneuvers around France. He must be old. He must be too long without a woman.

He must be mad.

He must see Fanny Becket smile again. And again. And again…

Fanny was uncomfortably aware of the Earl’s closeness to her as they made their way down the flagway crowded with ladies in fine gowns and bonnets, parasols held high over their heads, near hordes of soldiers clad in several different sorts of colorful uniforms, solemn-faced gentlemen walking and talking and gesturing without regard to anyone else on the flagway.

“I’ve never seen a city this large, my lord,” she said, if only to break the strained silence between them.

“You’ve never been to London?”

“No. I’ve been to Dover. Just the one time. The largest house I’ve seen is Becket Hall, which is considerable, but I believe that building just over there, across the square, could make three Becket Halls, with room left over for Becket Village. I’m a bumpkin, aren’t I?”

“I’ll do my best to forgive you if you promise not to admit to such a terrible sin when we’re in company,” Brede said, patting her hand as it lay on his forearm. “Jack’s signature included the address of Romney Marsh. You’ll pardon me my ignorance, but I thought only sheep lived there. And smugglers enjoying the proximity of Calais across the narrow Channel, of course. I imagine your family enjoys French brandy from time to time.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Fanny said quickly. “My father and our family are involved in other pursuits. And Jack now, too, since he married my sister Elly and came to live with us. Have you known Jack for very long? We’re all extremely fond of him. And Elly dotes on him, of course.”

Brede thought he sensed something almost nervous in Fanny’s voice, as if that lighthearted tone was somehow deliberate. Which was ridiculous, as she was young and innocent, and couldn’t possibly have anything to hide…other than that atrocious hair, and he was actually beginning to get used to even that. The sun seemed to turn the light, white-gold strands into spun silk. Or spun sugar.

And he was becoming fanciful again.

They were only a few doors from his sister’s rented residence now, and Brede knew chances for private conversation with Fanny would be few and far between once Lucille had her teeth in the poor girl. In addition, he’d just received another assignment from Wellington that would take him out of the city until late tomorrow night at the very least.

“Fanny,” he said, pulling her over to stand in front of one of the buildings.

“My lord?” she answered, noticing for the first time that he, among all the men on the street, was not wearing a hat. He’d done that for her, she was sure of it; if she had no bonnet, he would wear no hat. She’d thank him, but then he’d probably just say something cutting and sarcastic and make her regret thanking him and long only to box his ears.

“I’ve written to Jack, explaining that I don’t have the time or the wherewithal at the moment to find a way to send you home to your family. Nobody knows where Bonaparte will strike, or when.”

“But you said you thought Quatre Bras or Ligny,” Fanny reminded him, and then mentally kicked herself, because she probably should not let him know how closely she listened to him.

“He could, I agree. He could also retreat after showing himself, only so that we likewise show him our strength or, at the moment, with no sign of Blücher’s forces as yet, our lack of it. He could head west and north, hoping to come at Brussels that way.”

“He won’t go east, because that’s where the Russians and Austrians are advancing against him,” Fanny said, as she and Rian had spoken long into the night last night, and Rian had even drawn a small map for her on paper he’d found in the Earl’s miniscule study. Then, remembering how much she wanted to remain in Brussels, near Rian, she quickly added, “But he could go west, as you said, skirt around us. No, I certainly can’t be riding toward Ostend, can I?”

Brede allowed one side of his mouth to rise in a small smile. “I’m not sending you home, Fanny. Not until this is either over or more manageable than it is now, the situation more stable. You were protected enough, in the eyes of society, with Rian in my house with you last night, but now that he’s gone, you’ll stay with my sister. I think that’s penance enough for chasing your brother across the Channel.”

“My sister Morgan says London society ladies are a breed apart. I didn’t know what she meant, until I encountered Lady Whalley,” Fanny said, smiling. “But please don’t worry, I’ll manage. Morgan, however, would probably have tied your sister’s tongue in a knot at the third ‘Oh, my stars’!”

“Your family becomes more and more interesting. I think I’ll enjoy escorting you back to them.”

Fanny kept her smile in place, even as her stomach did a small flip. The Earl of Brede, at Becket Hall? A man who seemed to see everything, spending time with her family? Clearly, when the time came, she needed to disappear, again. He might follow her; he seemed that obstinate. But at least she’d have time to prepare her family, in case Jack just thought of the man as a friend. “How very…delightful, my lord.”

“Valentine,” Brede said, watching Fanny’s tip-tilted green eyes as shadows seemed to come and go in them. “I have, after all, seen you in trousers.”

“I think we can safely forget that memory, thank you,” Fanny told him, wishing he would let go of her arm, finish escorting her to his sister’s residence. He was beginning to make her very nervous. Not just by what he was saying, but by the way he was looking at her. Rian had never looked at her that way, not ever. As if she was somehow…fascinating to him. She rather liked it.

“Agreed. The memory is consigned to the distant past. However, as you have already shown that you forget nothing you’ve heard, let me explain about Lady Richmond’s ball. It’s one of any number of balls, routs, our fellow countrymen are hosting here, as if the world is gathering in Brussels for one large party. Wellington himself hosts at least one a week. I’ve been fortunate enough to escape most of them, but I can’t escape the Duchess of Richmond if I’m in town that night. Barely anyone can. You’ll attend, as well, with Lucille, even if I cannot.”

“Why? The Duchess of Richmond doesn’t even know I’m alive, for pity’s sake.”

“Ah, but she knows Lucille. And, Fanny, where Lucille goes, you go. She’s been warned not to let you out of her sight.”

“That’s insulting,” Fanny told him. “If I give you my word that I won’t go…go chasing after Rian again, will I then be able to remain at your sister’s? I have no desire to spend an evening standing in a corner, watching people laugh and joke when the world could be turned upside down in an instant.”

He felt so damned old. “The world is always poised to go upside down in an instant, Fanny.”

She pulled her arm free, turned away from him. “Now you sound like my papa.”

Brede smiled at her turned back, fought down the urge to reach out, stroke her sun-bright hair and its poor, chopped ends. “That most assuredly wasn’t my intention. In any event, I’ll definitely be elsewhere until at least tomorrow evening, so you don’t have to fear me barging into my sister’s demanding to know your whereabouts.”

Fanny turned quickly, putting her hand on his arm, then just as quickly grabbing it back when she realized what she’d done. “You’re…Where are you going?”

“And that, my dear, is really none of your business, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Fanny agreed, mentally kicking herself for worrying about this arrogant man. She had enough to worry her about Rian, who seemed to have much in common with the Duchess of Richmond and the others, as if Bonaparte marching toward them with unknown thousands of soldiers at his back was just too exciting, too titillatingly delicious for words, and they simply
couldn’t
miss out on the fun.

Fanny was very far from titillated. Because she’d been having dreams ever since Rian left Becket Hall. Terrible dreams. Dreams of the island on that last day. She’d been young, too young, to remember that day, and yet, in her dreams, she thought she could hear, as well as see it. Hear the screams of agony. See the white sand, the ghastly red blood soaking into it. Terror then, war coming at them now. Was there a connection? What could that connection be?

She could have gone to Odette, asked her why these dreams, these nightmares, were plaguing her. But then Odette would answer her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear that answer.

To Fanny, Rian was the answer. Rian, who had always been her haven of safety. She’d needed to see him, yes. But she’d also fled to him…not that she’d say anything like that to him. He had enough to concern him, what with Bonaparte out there somewhere, planning his attack. But she was frightened about more than Bonaparte. So very frightened…