No Longer a Gentleman (19 page)

Cassie’s heart clutched as she thought of roses and frankincense, lost dreams and darkest night. Was she ready for that much truth? Haltingly she said, “Perhaps … I am.”

“Truly you will not regret it,” her friend said quietly. “Now let me send off these notes to summon my troops, and then we’ll go to work on that hair!”

Grey headed east across London at a ground-eating pace. He needed to burn off the seething anxiety induced by his imminent return to his family home.

After years of captivity and weeks of travel by horse, boat, and carriage, it felt good to stretch his legs. He also discovered a new kind of freedom in having no one know where he was.

To his surprise, it even felt good to be alone. After ten years of solitary confinement, he’d been hungry for human contact only to find that crowds sent him into a flat panic. Only with Cassie was he truly comfortable, though he could manage a few friends like Père Laurent or Lady Agnes or Kirkland.

He hoped he’d be able to retrieve Régine soon. He’d need her company because soon he wouldn’t have Cassie. The thought of living without her was a pain so deep he didn’t have words to describe it. But even her superb kindness couldn’t hide her impatience to be free of her nursemaid duties so she could return to her real work.

He was a little ashamed of invoking her promise to stay with him as long as she was needed so that she’d come with him to Summerhill. Though not ashamed enough to wish he hadn’t done it.

With his father critically ill, of course he must return home. The prospect had been paralyzing even before he’d learned of his father’s illness. Now it was worse.

He didn’t doubt that they’d welcome him. The problem was facing them. Even more than his lifelong friends, his family had expectations and memories of him. They were the people he’d hurt the most. He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting them more by being so different from what they remembered.

The situation was made much more difficult by his father’s critical illness. If Lord Costain died …

Grey shuddered, not wanting to think of it.

He suspected that once his family’s initial shock was over and all the explanations had been made, he’d be able to manage, with Cassie’s help. Then he’d prepare himself for the even more devastating challenge of saying good-bye to her.

He set aside his worries about returning home and concentrated on London. He’d reached the busy stretch of the Thames called the Pool of London, which stretched east from London Bridge. There was a forest of masts from the sailing ships moored two and three deep at the public quays. Sailors of many nations walked the streets and exotic scents and accents overlaid the usual smells of London.

He found that the crowds didn’t bother him much as long as he stayed on the edges. Apparently his fear of crowds was diminishing.

He paced along the quays, studying the ships. Once he’d dreamed of boarding such a vessel and sailing to distant lands. France had been his first venture from England’s shores. It had not turned out well.

He wondered if he’d ever regain that desire to travel. At the moment, the idea of never setting foot out of Great Britain was immensely appealing.

He walked and explored for hours. It was well into the afternoon before he realized that he really should eat. He was walking past a tavern called the Three Ships, which seemed as good a place as any. Grey entered, inhaling the tang of hops and good English ale mixed with the scent of fish and meat and baking. England. Home.

Eight or ten men were clustered in small groups in the taproom. Stevedores by the look of them. Kirkland had given Grey cash to tide him over until he had his affairs sorted out. In a mood of reckless generosity, Grey called to the landlord, “I’m just back to England after too many years abroad, so I’ll stand every man here a drink. Including one for you, sir.” He laid coins on the counter.

That raised a murmur of approval from the other patrons. A grizzled older man raised his refilled tankard. “Here’s to your health, sir, and welcome home!”

Most of the customers collected their drinks with thanks, but good will wasn’t universal. A particularly burly stevedore sneered, “What’s a flash cove like you doing in our tavern?”

So much for the disguising effects of a shapeless coat and hat. “Buying beer for my fellow Englishmen,” Grey said mildly. “Would you like one?”

The man spat. “I don’t need nuthin’ from a so-called gentleman like you.”

“What kind of fool doesn’t want free beer, Ned?” the grizzled man asked indignantly. “I’m happy to drink the gentleman’s health.”

The significant glance he cast at his tankard had Grey putting more coins on the bar. “Seconds all around for those who want them.”

This suited everyone except Ned. He swaggered up to Grey, smelling like sour gin. “Don’t need you here, puttin’ on your airs!”

Using his most supercilious voice, Grey drawled, “I do believe that you are looking for a fight. Am I correct?”

“Bloody right I am!” Ned swung a furious punch.

Fierce joy coursed through Grey’s veins. He’d been spoiling to smash his fists into someone, and finally his opportunity had arrived.

He dodged to one side so he wouldn’t be trapped against the bar. Ned was taller and three or four stones heavier, but his fighting was based on strength, not skill. Grey easily blocked or avoided his punches while landing several good hits himself.

When Ned swung a particularly wild blow and became unbalanced, Grey caught his wrist, then flipped the man onto his back. Ned landed with a mighty “Ooof !”

“Take it outside!” the landlord barked.

Grey balanced lightly on his toes, ready to move in any direction. “Had enough?”

“No, by God!” The stevedore lurched to his feet. “No skinny gent like you can lick Ned Brown!”

“Then let us move outside.” Grey made a sweeping bow that he knew would irritate the stevedore, then exited before Ned could attack again.

They resumed their fight outside on the windy street. The patrons from the Three Ships followed, beers in hand and placing bets on the outcome. Ned was apparently a well-regarded street fighter and he was favored at first over the “skinny gent.”

But Grey had been trained well at Westerfield, where sparring with other boys was the favorite sport. Later he’d had boxing lessons at Jackson’s Saloon before traveling to France. His muscles remembered the feints, strikes, and kicks.

He reminded himself that this was no fight to the death, just a tavern brawl as an outlet for his churning emotions. Though he was careful not to cause real damage, he gloried in the physical release.

Ned managed to connect with a few glancing blows that would leave bruises, including one across Grey’s cheek, but Grey was faster and more agile. When Ned started wheezing dangerously, Grey decided it was time to end the brawl.

He threw Ned onto his belly, put a knee in the stevedore’s back and twisted the man’s arm up behind his back. “Well fought, sir!” he panted. “Shall I break your arm, or buy you a drink in the Three Ships?”

After a startled pause, Ned chuckled hoarsely. “You’re the damnedest fellow, but you sure as bloody hell can fight. I’ll go for the drink.”

“You’re likely right about the damned part.” Grey released Ned. When the big man got up, the two of them led the parade back into the tavern.

The older man asked, “Where were you in foreign parts?”

“France.” Grey took a swig of ale, testing how he felt about saying more. Since these men were strangers, he decided to continue. “Ten bloody years in a French prison.”

The grizzled man gave a low whistle. “No wonder you’re so glad to get home! Here’s to a healthy future here in England!”

Even Ned drank to that. Grey bought several more rounds, downing his share. He’d always been good at talking to men from every station in life, and he found that he hadn’t lost the knack.

When his head started feeling disconnected from his body, it was time to leave. Evening was coming and he wanted to get back to Cassie. He emptied his tankard, then called out, “My thanks to you gentlemen for helping me celebrate my homecoming.”

He left the tavern followed by a chorus of invitations to return to the Three Ships any time. Maybe he’d do that, too. It had all been blessedly uncomplicated.

Summerhill would not be uncomplicated.

Grey took the direct route home, but it was nearly dark when he reached Exeter Street. Even though his feet were sore, he was whistling and pleased with life. By most standards, it had been a wasted day—but he felt better able to face Summerhill.

His step quickened as he went up the steps to the front door. Surely Cassie would be back by now. It was absurd to yearn for her company so much when it had been only a few hours, but the world felt right when she was near.

He had to fumble a bit to find the key to the house. He probably should have stopped a drink or two earlier. He finally managed to open the door and he stepped into the lamp-lit foyer.

Grey was removing his coat when he heard light steps coming down the staircase. The steps sounded like Cassie’s, so he looked up hopefully, but the woman was a stranger.

Granted, she was a stunner, with bright auburn hair and a splendid figure. Even though Grey was out of touch with current fashion, he recognized that the elegant blue-green gown had to have come from one of London’s best modistes. It took talent to make a woman look ladylike and deeply provocative at the same time.

She must be one of Kirkland’s agents. If so, that décolletage made clear how she coaxed information from the enemy. Trying not to stare too obviously at her neckline, he bowed as well as he could without falling over. “Good evening, mademoiselle.”

She stopped three steps from the bottom of the stairs and said in an icily aristocratic voice, “I beg your pardon, sir, but have we been introduced?”

That voice …

He gasped. The perfect height and proportions, the delicate, vulnerable features, the blue eyes with unknowable depths. “Cassie?” he asked incredulously.

“I’m surprised you recognized me, given where you were looking,” she said with tart amusement.

“Cassie.” He moved forward and embraced her. Since she was standing on the stairs, his arms went around her waist and he rested his head on the delicious softness of her breasts. Lilac and rose blossoms and other scents he couldn’t identify, all of them adding up to make her smell even more like Cassie. “I’ve missed you.”

Smiling, she looped her arms around his neck. “It’s only been a few hours.”

“Too many hours.” He slid one hand over her perfectly curved backside. Yes, everything was just as it ought to be.

“What do you think of my fine feathers?” she asked shyly.

He pulled back and surveyed her from bright hair to slipper-shod feet, missing nothing in between. “I have an intense desire to make mad, passionate love to you,” he said with complete sincerity.

“You do that even when I look like a washerwoman.” Her brow furrowed. “Seriously, do I look fit to be your fiancée?”

Seeing her concern, he forced himself to concentrate. Perhaps some would not call her a beauty because she didn’t have classically perfect features and that spectacular red hair looked distinctly naughty. But she was allowing her strength and warmth and intelligence to show, and to him, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Beautiful, and more. “You are every inch a refined lady,” he said seriously. “You’ve always been beautiful. Letting the world see that beauty must make you feel more confident, and that makes you even more beautiful. But I am a bit jealous because now everyone will see you as I do.”

“I’m glad I look sufficiently ladylike.” She brushed her fingers through his hair, very much his Cassie despite her new appearance. “Though otherwise you’re not making a lot of sense, and you smell of beer. Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” he said meekly.

She touched his bruised cheek. “Were you in a fight?”

“Yes. But I won.”

“What did you win?”

“The right to buy the fellow a beer.”

“I suppose that makes sense to males.” Her laughter was soft. “Are you happy?”

He sighed and pulled her closer. Lovely décolletage. Lovely gown. He wanted to take it off her. “Yes. Especially now that you’re here. Would you like to go upstairs so I can make mad, passionate love to you?”

“Later, perhaps, but at the moment, I wish to feed another appetite,” she said. “The Powells serve supper to anyone in residence and Kirkland intended to stop by if he had time. Join me, for you need some food and some strong coffee.”

“I expect you’re right. I believe that I forgot to eat.”

“It’s good that you’re a happy drunk rather than a mean one.” She descended the last few steps. “My lord, will you give me your arm to take me into dinner?”

“Let me see if I remember how to be gentlemanly.” He made a sweeping bow without falling over, then straightened and offered his arm. “If you would do me the honor …”

As she stepped toward him, he stroked her hair, enjoying the silkiness and bounce. The bright auburn had to be natural, for it suited her complexion much better than the dull brown. “How did you manage to transform yourself so quickly?”

“Kiri did it all. I just obeyed orders. Kiri’s sister is near my size and she contributed several lovely gowns. Kiri’s own modiste came personally with some partially made up garments, plus seamstresses for instant alterations. Kiri even managed to get cards engraved and printed for me.” She pulled a card from her dainty little reticule and handed it to Grey. “The ink is still damp, but they look very proper.”