Mad About the Earl (23 page)

Crane tut-tutted. “Are you
threatening
me, Master Griffin? Like you threatened Allbright?”

Griffin tightened his grip. “Why do you ask?” he said. “Do you have any plans for getting thrown off a cliff that I should know about? In that case, I’ll order champagne.”

Crane couldn’t have been comfortable with his collar tightening around his reddening neck, but the sneer on his face didn’t slip. “You and that fool of a justice have sewn up that little business nicely, haven’t you? All neat and tidy. But we know what you did, Master Griffin. Everyone hereabouts knows the truth.”

Crane angled his head. “I wonder if that yaller-headed ladybird of yours has heard of it yet? I’d wager she hasn’t.… But she will.”

At the mention of Rosamund, a haze of red swam over his vision. With a roar, Griffin hauled back his fist, but it was caught from behind in a strong, restraining hold.

He pivoted, ready to pummel the newcomer for his interference, but then he saw who held him in an iron grip.

“Well, now, what do we have here, eh?” The vicar’s hearty tones rang out in the quiet of the taproom as he hung on to Griffin’s elbow with both hands. “Tregarth! I say, old fellow, let him go. You’ll soil your gloves touching that.”

Moments passed before Griffin grew calm enough to speak. With a short laugh, he said, “You’re right. Hardly worth wrinkling my coat for.” Griffin released Crane and stepped back.

“Go, now, Mr. Crane,” said the vicar. “We don’t want trouble in this fine establishment, now, do we?”

But Crane had achieved what he’d come for: He’d provoked Griffin to violence. With a wink at Bessie and a cocky smirk, he took himself off.

Griffin turned to the barmaid, who cowered behind the bar, holding an empty wine bottle like a club. She flinched when he stepped toward her.

“The brandy, if you please, Bessie,” he said gently.

The girl set down her weapon and fumbled for the bottle of cognac stowed underneath the gleaming bar. She opened it and sloshed it into a glass.

Her hands shook, he noticed. Silently, he cursed Crane for forcing the quarrel and himself for rising to the bait.

He took the brandy with thanks and a handsome tip that did much to banish the fear from the barmaid’s eyes.

Then he turned to address the vicar. “You’re early.”

Oliphant shrugged. “Parish business across the street. I happened to see Crane follow you in and thought there might be trouble. Ah!” Oliphant rubbed his hands together, eyeing Griffin’s drink. “Dutch courage, eh? Capital idea.”

The good vicar never passed up an opportunity to drink at someone else’s expense, no matter what time of day. With a grin, Griffin turned to order a second brandy for his friend. They took their beverages to a corner table, well away from the bar and Bessie’s ears.

“Well, well,” said Oliphant, eyeing him. “You do scrub up nicely. Can it be the change that love hast wrought?”

Griffin hunched his shoulders. He’d complained bitterly to his valet that London ways simply wouldn’t do here in Cornwall, but Dearlove had insisted on dressing him like some town beau on the strut.

He jerked his head toward the bar. “My thanks for the intervention.”

“I’ve no cause to love the fellow,” said Oliphant. “He lures all the younger men into that smuggling racket of his. Likely get them all hanged. That’s if anyone hereabouts had the nerve to stand up to Crane and his gang.” He hesitated. “You know, Tregarth, you could do something—”

“You’d best drink up,” interrupted Griffin. “It won’t do your standing any good to be seen with me.”

“None at all,” agreed the vicar, accepting the change of subject with equanimity. “But I have the excuse that I am about to marry you to your lovely heiress. What’s she like?”

Griffin sipped his drink and hissed through his teeth as he felt the kick. The alcoholic warmth spread to his limbs, relaxing them a little. He needed that.

Yes, brandy had been an inspired idea. His nerves still jangled after that encounter with Crane. Besides, he had yet to see Rosamund, which was why he’d bought the bloody drink in the first place.

“Lady Rosamund?” He swirled his brandy, warming it with his hand. “She is without doubt the most exquisitely beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Oliphant laughed at his gloomy tone. “That’s a bad thing?”

“It is if you look like me,” he replied. “As for her character, she’s good-natured, softhearted, but she’s no fool. She has wit and intelligence and a little guile thrown in for good measure.”

She’d wrapped him around her little finger from the start, hadn’t she? And that had less to do with her spectacular face and form and more to do with her unique courage in standing up to him. She’d laughed at his ill-tempered rudeness, set her own price for complying with his wishes, then coaxed him to please her as if she were an experienced trainer breaking in a wild colt.

“She sounds like a paragon,” said Oliphant.

“All sweetness and light, that’s my lady.” But he’d discovered a deliciously naughty side to his bright angel that he wasn’t about to share with Oliphant. Rosamund’s intimate, throaty laughter rang in his memory, heated his blood.

The vicar lowered his gaze, then looked up at him from beneath his brows. “Have you told her?”

Absorbed in Rosamund, for a moment, Griffin didn’t take Oliphant’s meaning. Then he held up his glass. “Why do you think I need the Dutch courage?”

An uncharacteristic flash of annoyance crossed the vicar’s features. “If only you’d let me—”

“No.” Griffin fixed him with a compelling stare. “No, my friend. Leave it be. Believe me, you would do far more harm than good.”

*   *   *

“My dear, you are like a cat on hot bricks,” said Tibby. “Stop fussing and fidgeting, or I shall make you read something to improve your mind.”

Rosamund halted her pacing. “Mary Wollstonecraft? I’ve already read her. Cecily made me. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Oh, not Mary Wollstonecraft,” said Tibby, picking up a tract from the table by her side and holding it out. “Hannah More.”

She said it in such accents of horror that Rosamund was obliged to laugh. “As if I could read such stuff. And at this of all moments!”

Tibby put down her tract. “You sent a message to Lord Tregarth, but that doesn’t mean he’ll drop everything and come running. Why, he could be from home all day, just as he was yesterday.”

Rosamund knew he’d come because she’d prearranged it while lying naked in Griffin’s bed last night, but she couldn’t tell Tibby that.

“Why don’t you take Meg and go for a walk?” Tibby suggested.

“No, no, that won’t do.” Fuming with impatience, Rosamund checked her reflection in the looking glass above the mantel once more.

She hadn’t, of course, disclosed to Tibby any aspect of last night’s adventure. For all her companion knew, she’d been tucked up safely in her own bed, not losing her maidenhead in Griffin’s.

Did she look any different? Rosamund scrutinized her face for telltale signs of last night’s debauchery as her mother might have searched her own face for wrinkles.

Rosamund frowned. Her cheeks might be a little pink and her eyes bright, but otherwise she detected no alteration. How could that be when she felt like a totally different person?

Someone scratched on the door, and Rosamund’s pulse jumped. In as steady a voice as she could manage, she called, “Come.”

The door opened and Griffin stood on the threshold.

Rosamund froze, staring up at him, her mouth ajar.

He was dressed immaculately, from the top of his neatly styled hair to the gleaming black of his boots. She’d been privileged to admire the strength and power of his form last night, but she’d never dreamed his big body could appear to such advantage in
clothes
.

And his face! He was clean-shaven, for one thing, but his hair had been trimmed in a style that revealed a pair of slashing cheekbones and seemed to emphasize those storm-cloud eyes. True, more of his cruel scar was visible without that unruly mane covering it, but she was so accustomed to the sight now, she hardly noticed it.

His eyes met hers, and some protective layer around her cracked and fell away. She quivered with it, this vulnerable, unprecedented feeling.

Suddenly it occurred to her that she’d given up more than her virginity last night.

He tilted his head a little, assessing her with those hot and cold eyes of his. That made her blush furiously. She couldn’t help remembering all that they’d done together in his bed.

“Rosamund, dear,” prompted Tibby.

“Oh.” She groped about for her usual poise but failed to locate it anywhere. “How—how silly of me. Do come in, Griffin.”

Tibby tugged the bellpull. “I’ll ring for tea.”

“W-won’t you sit down?” Lord, it was like talking to a stranger. She’d been intimate with Griffin in ways she couldn’t even begin to examine in the light of day, yet in those garments, she didn’t know him at all. It was disorienting, as if she’d dismounted from a horse, only to discover the ground wasn’t where she’d left it.

He made no effort to set her at her ease. In fact, he seemed distracted. Didn’t he recall that he was supposed to express surprise about her presence at the inn?

She took the initiative. “I suppose you are wondering why I am here, Griffin.”

Confusion crossed his features. “What?”

Rosamund flared her eyes at him and glanced at Tibby. “I mean, you didn’t expect me to follow you down here, did you?”

“Oh! Right. Yes. Yes, that’s right. I didn’t. Expect it, that is.”

“And…,” prompted Rosamund.

She waited, but he merely stared at her in a baffled way.

“Since I am here anyway…”

He started. “Oh.” He glanced at Tibby. “Yes, well. Perhaps we ought to…” He cleared his throat. “Rosamund, might I speak to you in private?”

Rosamund frowned at him. This was not part of the instructions she’d given him before she left the previous evening.

Despite her minatory look, he didn’t amend his request, so she gave a small shrug and smiled at Tibby. “Would you mind giving us privacy, Tibby? Just for a few minutes?”

“Certainly, my dear,” said Tibby, picking up her book. “I will return in
fifteen
minutes, to be precise.”

Rosamund waited until Tibby closed the door behind her. Then she turned to Griffin and whispered, “What is it? What happened? I trust you have not changed your mind, for things have gone too far—”

“I haven’t changed my mind!” Griffin’s eyes blazed. “What kind of a bas—?”

“Hush! Keep your voice down!” She darted a look toward the door.

Lowering his voice, he said, “What kind of a blackguard do you take me for? Of course I haven’t changed my mind. But there’s something you should know.”

The gravity of his expression alarmed her at first. But then she remembered her conversation with Griffin’s sister.

Rosamund decided to keep Jacqueline’s disclosures to herself. She wanted to hear the story from Griffin.

Before he could begin, the maid came in with the tea.

They both fell silent, waiting for the serving girl to leave. China clattered together as the maid walked across the room with the tray and set it on the table between Griffin and Rosamund.

As the girl set out the tea things, Rosamund saw that the face under the mob cap displayed abject terror. She kept darting glances at Griffin, and nearly upset the sugar bowl in her nervous distraction.

“Leave it,” said Rosamund with a snap in her voice. “Good God, girl, do you suppose he’s going to eat you?”

The maid gave a whimper and wiped her hands down her apron, as if they’d grown clammy in her fear.

“Off you go. I shall pour.” Rosamund waved a hand and the girl scampered.

Rosamund turned to look at Griffin. “My goodness, if that is what you must put up with around here, I don’t wonder at your habitual ill temper.”

“I am not ill tempered,” growled Griffin.

“You are, but I am not going to argue with you over it. Tell me what you wanted to tell me. I am eaten up with curiosity.”

Her light words seemed to relax him a little. Good.

He leaned forward to accept his cup from her. Absently, he took a sip. Then looked down, raising his brows. “How did you know how I like my tea?”

Strong, with a dash of milk and three lumps of sugar. Ugh!

“
Is
that how you like it?” she said innocently. “What a happy coincidence.”

She would hardly admit that she’d memorized every scrap of detail about his likes and dislikes she could glean while she’d been at Pendon Place. So utterly mad for him, despite the horrid welcome he’d given her. So determined to be the perfect wife.

She fingered her locket, then snatched away her hand. She must stop doing that.

“Hmph,” said Griffin.

“Pray, begin.” Regally, she inclined her head.

And so he told her. About threatening Allbright, then finding him dead on the rocks beneath the cliff.