Anita Mills (2 page)

“I
HEARD
H
AVERHILL
cut up pretty warm,” the young man observed, dropping into one of the wing chairs. Turning his head despite the high points of his collar, he gazed admiringly about the paneled bookroom. “Not at all what you are used to, is it?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t believe m’eyes when I read it—Red Jack Rayne, a baron—now there’s justice, if there ever was any. You going to live here?”

“I haven’t thought about it yet. ‘Twas a trifle unexpected,” Jack admitted. “He was not much above fifty, you know, and I rather thought he’d produce an heir before he died.”

“Thought he was a bachelor.”

“He was, but there was always the possibility he’d marry.” For a long moment, Jack stared unseeing across the room, then he straightened. “In my business, a man lives for today rather than on expectation.”

“You ain’t thinking of selling out?”

“I suppose. The war’s done, anyway, and it doesn’t look like Boney’ll rise again,” he conceded.

“An army without Red Jack Rayne?” The younger man lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “Coming it too strong! We got to have our heroes, Jack—we got to.”

The warmth faded from the hazel eyes. “I’m not a hero, Tony.”

“What the deuce—how the devil can you say that?” his friend choked. “Everybody’s heard of Red Jack! Why, you was there at Talavera, Cuidad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Victoria, and—” He ticked off the victories on his fingers. “Well, you was in the dispatches, Jack!”

“I was a survivor. The heroes are all dead, Tony.”

“Dash it, but how can you talk like that? Why, we read about how ’twas you as led the charge at—”

“I am not one who enjoys reliving horror,” Jack cut in abruptly, stopping him.

“You was decorated for it—aye, ’twas in all the papers how the Prince Regent himself received you, how Parliament voted—”

“I said I did not wish to speak of it.” Jack’s voice, though quiet, had a definite edge to it. “The war’s over for me. If you would lionize those who survived, look at the poor devils who beg on the streets now.” He rose and walked with a decided limp to the window. “Look out there—they are everywhere—the ones who came back not heroes to this, Tony. Then look at me. Baron Haverhill—’tis a jest, is it not?”

Not knowing how to answer him, Anthony Marston fell silent for a time. Finally, he cleared his throat. “All right—you ain’t a hero then. Divine Providence made a mistake and you was left alive.”

“Something like that.”

“So what do you do now? I mean, you got a tide, property, and a little fortune, don’t you? Seems to me as you ought to get on with it.”

“I will—if fools don’t keep reminding me.”

“Leg hurt?”

Jack smiled ruefully and nodded. “Only when it rains, which is too damned often.” He came back to sit again. “I am thinking of politics,” he admitted suddenly.

“With your rep—” Tony caught himself and stopped. “Well, it might not be a bad thing—bound to be those as would favor you. But ’twill have to be Lords now—I mean—”

“Aye.”

“You a Whig or a Tory?”

“Actually, I hadn’t given it much thought until lately. But I suppose a Whig, for they are the most inclined to act. I mean to try to help those who have come back to nothing, Tony.”

“Now, you ain’t going to be one of those deuced reformers surely? I mean, I don’t think I could stand it.”

“Maybe.”

“What you need,” Tony pronounced definitely, “is a night at White’s—good games, good company, good supper, and plenty of drink. Make you forget the war—make you forget Haverhill even,” he coaxed.

Jack shook his head. “Got too much to tend to—Cousin Henry left his affairs pretty tangled, by the looks of it. Maybe by next week.”

“If that don’t beat the Dutch!” Tony snorted in disgust. “Red Jack Rayne don’t have time to play anymore! Time was, Jack, when you was the first to the tables and the last to leave—and don’t you think I don’t remember it! The demned war has taken all your pleasures, ain’t it?”

“Something like that.”

“Listen—it don’t have to be the games—I had it from Biggleston that there’s a new gel a-singing at Haymarket. Prettier than Vestris, if Ponsonby can be believed.”

The new baron leaned toward the cluttered desk and lifted a sheaf of papers for Tony to see. “Not tonight. I’ve got my uncle’s man of affairs coming in the morning, and I’d have a notion where I stand. Thus far, I don’t know what’s paid and what isn’t.”

“If it’s tradesmen, they can wait.”

“It’s thinking like that that sends a fellow into exile, ” Jack warned his friend. Then, seeing Tony’s face fall, he relented. “Tell you what—come to dinner at half-past eight Tuesday, will you? I’ll send around to Ponsonby and Crisswell and Wrexham, and we’ll make an evening of it,” he promised.

Marston studied Jack for a moment, seeing the fatigue lines that deepened at the corners of otherwise fine hazel eyes.

And even as he stared, Rayne passed a weary hand over his forehead, brushing back the thick mahogany-colored locks that fell forward. There was no question about it, the famed—or infamous, depending on whom one asked—Red Jack was exceedingly tired. It crossed Tony’s mind that he looked more than his thirty years. The war and the wound had taken their toll on what had once been a hell-or-nothing handsome countenance. Fighting his disappointment, he rose.

“Tuesday night, it is.” Impulsively, he leaned to grip Jack’s hard shoulder. “You get some rest—ain’t right for Red Jack Rayne to go around looking like death’s head on a mop stick, you hear?”

“I am all right—been up since six, that’s all.”

“Six?” Tony recoiled visibly. “Well, no wonder! Don’t think I was abed much before then.” Seeing his friend start to rise, he hastened to reassure him. “No, no—no need at all, old fellow. Time ain’t come yet as when Tony Marston cannot find his way out.”

After he left, Jack moved to the desk and poured himself a drink from the decanter. Resting his head on an elbow, he read down the column of figures he’d been writing. Only one item puzzled him—an annuity to a Jessica Merriman. Had it been less, he’d have assumed it was a pension, but one hundred pounds per year was exorbitant. He opened the ledger book again to check the figure, and there in a neat hand it was. And thumbing backward, he found it had been listed for as many years as the book had been kept. Intrigued, he wondered if perhaps the Merriman woman represented an old liaison of sorts. And somehow it gave him a chuckle to think that Old Henry had been caught enough to pay, for he’d never seen a colder fish in his life.

Making a checkmark beside the figure, he moved on down the page, noting the rest of the list. A careful totaling revealed what he’d suspected—Henry had left him a tidy fortune even after all was paid. He leaned back, sipping his drink slowly, savoring it, and looked about him. It was in truth a fine house also, he admitted it. The devil of it was that he really hadn’t needed one.

Ten years in the army, seven of them with Old Douro himself, had taught him that a man’s needs were actually quite few. He’d gotten on more than tolerably well with naught but a batman to take care of him. And here he was, Baron Haverhill of Haverhill, surrounded by servants, possessed of a considerable fortune. It was funny.

A cynical, derisive chuckle escaped him as he thought of how he’d once been—a young fool filled with notions of honor and glory. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast to the young John Rayne, the boy he’d buried somewhere in Spain, the boy who’d been killed as surely as if a French ball had taken him. His hand rubbed along the top of his thigh as though to reassure himself it was still there. The pain it gave him was little enough payment for keeping the leg. “To a bloody fool,” he said softly.

He supposed he ought to be grateful to Henry for rescuing him from the army, for he’d lost his taste for it somewhere in the Peninsula. Too many dead friends, too much destruction. It finally got to where it scarred a man’s soul. He drained his glass and poured another, then sprawled back to commence another night of holding the demons at bay. Maybe if he had enough, he would forget how it had been—maybe he’d forget the sounds and the stench of war.

Kitty eased the door open, peering inside to make certain he was alone. Thus far, gaining entrance to his house had been almost too easy, for the butler, taking in her plain cloak and gown, had accepted her explanation that she sought one of the housemaids, and he’d sent her around to the back. It had helped that Jem had been able to discover a name from a footman to make her story more plausible.

Drawing the faded cloak over her arm to cover her hand, she stepped gingerly into the bookroom. It took a moment to adjust her eyes to the dimness, for there was but one brace of candles lit, and the fire had all but died.

She stood there, afraid her courage meant to desert her, then slowly crept across the room to where the chair had been pulled between the fire and the desk. She could see the outline of the man, and her heart pounded as she approached him, afraid that he’d swing around and see her ere she was ready. But he did not move.

He was sitting—sprawled actually—in the chair, with his long legs extended, his boots resting on the polished marble hearth. His head was leaned back, his eyes closed. For a moment, she thought he slept, then she saw the half-filled glass in his hand. Her fingers tightened on the pistol as she moved closer, stepping to his side.

This then was the notorious Baron Haverhill, the odious villain who stood between Jess and her happiness. For a long moment, Kitty stared at him curiously. Perhaps it was that his face was unguarded from the drink, but he did not look so very terrible. In fact, he was rather handsome, if one did not mind the unruly auburn hair that fell over his forehead. He had a strong, almost classical face, she decided dispassionately, and he certainly did not look as old as Jess had painted him to her. But Jess had been but sixteen and inexperienced before the world then, and certainly with none but Rollo for measure, she could be forgiven the error of a few years. Her eyes traveled the length of him, and she realized he was far bigger than she’d imagined. She felt almost intimidated looking at him.

Resolutely, she let the cloak fall back. “Baron Haverhill —my lord—”

The most arresting hazel eyes she’d ever seen flew open, and he sat up, startled. “What the deuce—?” He blinked, trying to gain his bearings as he found himself facing the merest slip of a girl in the plain dress of a housemaid. “Must’ve dozed,” he mumbled apologetically.

His first impression was that she could not be above sixteen or seventeen, for she was quite small and delicately made.

His eyes traveled appreciatively from her narrow waist to her face, and there was no disappointment there either. Had she been taller, she must surely have been considered a beauty, but even as she was, she was extremely pretty in a rosy, soft blond way. There was even a hint of humor in her lovely blue eyes. It was the first time he’d ever seriously considered dallying with one of the maids.

“Are you Baron Haverhill?” she repeated, this time more definitely.

“I am.” Despite his fatigue, he managed to flash what he hoped was his most engaging smile. “And you are—?”

“Smith,” she lied.

“I see. Miss Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Well, usually we address those who are employed here by their given names.”

“But I am not employed here,” she murmured, raising her hand.

His gaze dropped to the pistol, and his smile broadened into a grin. “If ’tis a jest, you’d best put that down, Miss—er—Smith, is it? Coming it too strong, even for Tony.” He started to lurch to his feet.

“Stay where you are,” she ordered coldly. As she spoke, she carefully cocked the gun with her other hand. “I can hit a cider jar at twenty paces, my lord—and you are considerably bigger than a cider jar.” She took a step backward, making certain she stayed out of his reach. “Now—you will rise that we may leave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She moved the pistol, gesturing toward the door. Perceiving that she was somehow serious, he measured the distance between them. A faint smile curved her mouth, and she shook her head. “I should not think to try it,” she advised.

“As I am considerably stronger and faster, I could argue the matter,” he murmured.

“You could, but I will not hesitate to shoot. And do not be thinking ’tis not loaded for firing, my lord, for I have measured the powder, placed the ball and wadding, and checked the flint myself.”

“I see.” His eyes flicked over her, betraying a glint of amusement. “I cannot think a female as pretty as yourself would have to resort to such drastic measures, my dear.”

“I am not your dear,” she retorted.

“And I suspect you are not Miss Smith either,” he retaliated.

“Who I am is nothing to the point.” She took another step backward, being careful to avoid the table behind her.’ ‘You will, of course, go first, my lord.”

“Er—do not think ’twill be remarked when I leave without so much as my coat in this weather?”

“Get it then. And do not be thinking to sound a warning, Baron Haverhill, for I shall be directly behind you.” Her eyes met his steadily. “I should hate having to shoot you.” When he made no move to follow her direction, she leveled the pistol until it was in line with his heart. “Have you seen the damage a ball can do, sir?” she demanded.

“Have you?” he countered.

He knew he could rush her, yet he was not so sure but what the foolish chit just might hit him. Besides, ‘twas an utterly ludicrous situation—the six-foot-tall Red Jack Rayne held at bay by the merest dab of a girl. How would it look if she did put a ball into him? And after he’d faced Boney’s best? No, ’twas better to wait, to catch her off her guard, for if there was anything he’d learned in his thirty years, ’twas that a pistol made equals out of nearly everyone.

“We have not all night, my lord.”

“I collect you mean to abduct me,” he murmured sardonically as he rose from the chair. “Did none ever tell you ’tis usually the other way ’round—’tis the fellow who does the abducting?” Her finger appeared to be tightening, prompting him to add gallantly, “But I shan’t repine, Miss Smith. Lead on.”