Rexanne Becnel (4 page)
Authors: The Matchmaker-1
Then it hit him like a blow to the gut. She was no ordinary household servant. He should have seen that at once. He looked down at the slender, damning volume he held. Only one sort of woman was likely to keep notes on so many men this way, and that was a woman of suspicious virtue.
Shaking his head, he flipped through the book slowly, from beginning to end. All men. Though it seemed unlikely that a woman of her sort would be able to write so well, what else could she be but a very astute lady of the evening? And this little volume must be her personal listing of her clientele.
He stared unblinking at the open French doors, struggling with that unsettling thought. Somehow she seemed too young—and too genuinely affronted by him—to be that sort of woman. With her cultured voice and hasty exit he could better believe her a young woman of the ton than an accomplished harlot. Added to that, Cummings did not seem energetic enough to bring such a woman inside his very own home, especially while his wife was in residence.
Then again, did anyone ever reveal who they truly were? Neville let out a cynical laugh. He certainly did not. Why should he expect Cummings to do so—or the innocent-looking Olivia B.?
He tapped the book against his open palm. It seemed clear that this Olivia was here at the behest of Cummings or one of his other friends. Why else would she be creeping about the house at night? He looked back at the journal in his hand, seeing instead those autumn-colored eyes of hers. That she could appear so pure and lovely—and unsullied—after what must have been a long and energetic night in some lucky man’s bed was astounding.
How he wished that bed had been his.
He let out a muffled curse at the return of a powerful desire. Whether she was whore or innocent, it didn’t matter. He wanted her. With one thumb he ruffled the pages of her guilty little book, then grinned. He might not know precisely who she was, but he had something she would want back. He had only to wait for her to come to him.
Meanwhile he had another hour until dawn, and what looked like very interesting reading to help him pass the time.
OLIVIA chewed her lip and stared out the bedroom window. Dawn had arrived at last, gray and moody. Below her Mr. Cummings and his guests ambled across the yard toward the stables. One and all they were dressed in riding gear. It appeared that despite the threatening weather, they meant to leave the carriage at home and instead take horses to Doncaster. Typical male behavior at a horse-racing weekend. Carriages that were considered a necessity in town were not manly enough here.
She let the lace panel fall back into place. So it had not been them in the yard before dawn. Had it been the man from the library? He was not among them now, she saw. So where was he?
Who was he?
After her narrow escape she’d returned to her chamber and lay fully clothed upon the narrow silk-upholstered settee, fuming over his vile behavior and his mysterious identity. The only guest not yet arrived was that fellow Hawke someone had mentioned last night. But if the cad was this Lord Hawke, wouldn’t he be on his way to Doncaster with the others? Conversely, if her unsavory acquaintance was not a guest and wasn’t on his way to Doncaster, that meant he could be anywhere—including the library where she had foolishly forgotten her journal. But who could he be? A relative perhaps? He’d certainly made himself comfortable in the library.
“Olivia?” her mother murmured from the next room. “Is that you? For heaven’s sake, child, pull the drapes to or close the door. You may be an early riser, but I am not.”
Olivia sighed and drew the ancient velvet drapes over the lace panel, then for good measure shut the door as well. Her mother would not rise until nearly noon, and if Penny Cummings were up, she was bound to be occupied with household matters. Olivia headed for the door. That meant she was left to her own devices for the next several hours. Normally that would suit her most agreeably. But with the possibility of that awful man roaming somewhere in the house, she was not certain what she should do.
In the hall she spied one of the upstairs maids. Though it was considered very bad form to quiz your hostess’s help, Olivia could see no alternative—not if she wished to retrieve her journal.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me, has the Cummingses’ last guest yet arrived?”
The mobcapped young woman bobbed a quick curtsey. “I cannot say, miss. We prepared his room yesterday but I haven’t heard whether he has arrived. Shall I check for you?” She gave Olivia a frankly curious look.
“Oh no. That’s not necessary, But I … ah … I do have an errand you might run for me. I forgot my book in the library last night. A little cream and gold book,” she added. “Could you fetch it for me?”
“As you wish. Shall I leave it in your room?”
“No. Bring it to me in the breakfast room. I’m going down now. Is Mrs. Cummings up?” she added with forced nonchalance.
“Milady usually sleeps till mid-morning and the men are already departed. I fear, miss, that you are forced to dine alone.”
“I am sure I shall not mind,” Olivia replied.
So long as I truly am alone.
She turned for the stairs. Alone was much better than being beleaguered by an amorous drunk.
So long as I truly am alone.
She turned for the stairs. Alone was much better than being beleaguered by an amorous drunk.
Neville stared into the small dressing mirror. Three hours of sleep would have to suffice. He normally slept till noon after his long restless nights. But he had business this morning. He had deals to make and horses to sell. Most of all, he had races
to win. For winning horses meant a winning stable, and a plethora of contracts to stud. He would need every shilling of that stud money if he were to maintain Woodford Court as his parents always had.
to win. For winning horses meant a winning stable, and a plethora of contracts to stud. He would need every shilling of that stud money if he were to maintain Woodford Court as his parents always had.
Fortunately, the horse stables had always been kept in good repair. But despite six months of extensive repairs, the main house’s elaborate slate roof still leaked in two places. The gutters needed releading too.
More important than the house, however, the sheep sheds, the shearing barns, and the shearers’ cottages required immediate attention. A win at Doncaster would increase the value of all his horses, which would increase his income and allow him to continue his improvements and thereby keep more of the strapped folks of the Cheviot Hills employed.
He pulled on a pair of mahogany brown riding boots and grabbed his frock coat and his flat-brimmed hat. Time to move on with his plan. But he paused when he spied the delicate little book lying on the bedside table.
Miss Olivia B. was quite the enigma. He’d read a number of her entries with amusement. She’d been careful to reveal no names, though with a little investigation he was certain the identities of her numerous male acquaintances could be ferreted out. But more fascinating to him than the entries was the woman who had made them. Such a beautiful enigma.
She’d been quite thorough in some of her entries. And completely candid. Any woman considering a man’s station in life and his acceptability as a protector would find her notations invaluable, though some of the men might find them insulting. To her credit, she’d not remarked on anyone’s prowess or personal sexual proclivities; a smart move, he conceded.
Still his jaw clenched rhythmically as an unsavory thought assailed him. Was it possible that auburn-haired beauty, so angelic in demeanor, had partaken of carnal relations with every one of those men?
On the one hand that possibility should encourage him. For if she were indeed a lady-go-lightly she should be easy enough to entice to his bed. He was not so penurious that he could not afford her services. Nevertheless, Neville felt an edge of
distaste. How had a woman who appeared so innocent and refined become embroiled in such a base profession?
distaste. How had a woman who appeared so innocent and refined become embroiled in such a base profession?
“That’s easy,” he muttered to himself. He plucked the book up and slid it into his pocket, then turned for the door. How did anyone end up in the situations they found themselves? By accident or bad luck—or God’s merciless humor. He grimaced. It didn’t matter why this Olivia B. had become a harlot. It was enough that she had—and that he was in need of her expertise. He would not have to seek her out, though. For he had her book and she would surely be anxious to recover it. He could afford to wait for her to come to him.
He patted his pocket, feeling the well-used journal there as he strode down the stairs. First breakfast, then business, then with any luck, tonight he would not spend the dreaded hours after midnight alone.
Olivia muttered an extremely unladylike curse. “He took it, the bounder. He must have.” The maid had intercepted her in the hall with the unhappy news that her journal was not to be found. But Olivia had to be sure. So she stood now just inside the library door, alert in case he should try once again to surprise her.
But the library was empty. The heavy burgundy draperies were drawn against the morning sun, and the wing chair he’d sat in had been turned around to face the room. The liquor tray was back in order, the decanters lined up, and the tumblers washed and neatly arranged. The only disorder was that of any library: more books than it could comfortably hold. Shelves jammed full, tables stacked high, and several large atlases lying in the corner on the floor. But not one sign of a cream and gold journal of no value to anyone but its owner. Why had he taken it?
Olivia scanned the room once more, her brow creased in aggravation. The housemaids had obviously been in. Perhaps one of them had already delivered it to the housekeeper. How embarrassing if the woman had read any of the entries.
Better the housekeeper, however, than that other nasty brute.
Completely out of sorts, she turned for the hall. The housekeeper was bound to look in on the breakfast table. Olivia would ask the woman then about her journal—and about the identity of her unpleasant companion of last night.
She found her way down the east wing hall, through the Cummingses’ grand foyer, and into the central hall, which she thought led back to the small dining room where a breakfast was supposed to be laid out.
This house was far too big ever to be comfortable, she decided as she headed down another endless hallway. Not at all like Byrde Manor with its large pair of drawing rooms and cozy surrounding rooms. She vaguely remembered the family taking breakfast in the kitchen there when she was a small child. Could that be right? Somehow she could not picture her mother consenting to dine in any kitchen, not even the huge one in Windsor Castle.
But the faded image of the fragrant kitchen at Byrde Manor would not go away. Soon enough she would determine how accurate her memories were.
She turned left into a small sitting room—not what she was looking for. Was everything going to go badly during this visit?
The unhappy answer appeared to be yes. For when Olivia backed out of the room and turned around, it was to find him, her nighttime nemesis, in the hall just behind her.
She sucked in a startled breath, then exhaled in a hiss. The shock of his presence was horrid enough. But he was staring at her now with the same insolent amusement as before. It was simply too much to be borne.
“Who do you think you are?” she snapped, though her heart thudded with fear. She placed her hands on her hips. “I suggest you cease this hooliganism, or I will summon Mr. Cummings to deal with you.”
“Mr. Cummings.” He grinned, then crossed his arms and leaned negligently against the wall. Somehow he seemed even bigger and more dangerous than he had last night. “So it is old Cummings you turn to for protection. I had wondered.”
“Who else?” she retorted. “And who are you to speak of him in such tones?”
“We are business acquaintances.”
“You are a guest here?”
He smirked at her. “Of course.”
Olivia’s heart sank even as her anger increased. Did Mr. Cummings know what sort of ruffian he had loosed upon his household? “I assume then that you must be Mr. Hawke.”
He straightened, smiling with satisfaction. “So he has mentioned me to you.”
“He did. You are purported to be something of a horseman.” Olivia jutted out her chin with more belligerence than she felt, and studied him closely. At least the man appeared sober this morning, though that affected neither her anger nor her caution. He was again well dressed in buckskin breeches and a tawny colored frock coat, and their fine cut set off his tall, manly figure. Broad shoulders, trim hips. He was younger than she would initially have guessed.
But his eyes were old, she realized, as if they’d seen more than a man needed to see.
Still, that was neither here nor there.
She crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Have you taken my journal from the library, Mr. Hawke?”
“It’s Lord Hawke,” he said. “But you may call me Neville. And yes, I do have your journal in my possession. Olivia.”
At once the alarm bells in her head which had sounded only a muffled din began wildly to clang. “It is Miss Byrde to you,” she stated, her voice cold and haughty. She stuck out her hand. “I’ll have it from you now.”
He stepped nearer; she snatched her arm back.
“I’d like to speak to you about that very topic.” He pushed open the door to the sitting room. “Shall we?”
Olivia took two hasty steps backward. “I don’t think so. All I want from you is my book, Lord Hawke. Nothing more. Just give it to me now and I will try to forget your appalling behavior last night—and your rudeness this morning.”
He grinned, a wicked half-grin that showed strong white teeth against his sun-browned face. She saw now the details
she’d had no time to see last night: the crooked scar along his jawline, the thick black hair and slashing brows, and the moody blue eyes. A Gypsy horse trader in gentleman’s attire, that’s what he looked like. Dark and dangerous with nothing of the true gentleman beneath his handsome exterior.
she’d had no time to see last night: the crooked scar along his jawline, the thick black hair and slashing brows, and the moody blue eyes. A Gypsy horse trader in gentleman’s attire, that’s what he looked like. Dark and dangerous with nothing of the true gentleman beneath his handsome exterior.
“I’m afraid I shall never be able to forget last night,” he said in a husky, intimate whisper. “I’d hoped you felt the same.”
“I’m sure I shall never forget it,” she snapped right back at him. “It was a figure of speech, as you well know. I meant only that I would not mention it to our hosts and thereby ruin what Mr. and Mrs. Cummings mean to be a pleasant holiday for their guests.”
“I don’t see why—” He broke off and stared intently at her, his head cocked slightly to one side. Slowly his smug expression faded. “Our hosts? You are acquainted with Mrs. Cummings—or rather, she is acquainted with you?”
“Of course. Like you, I am her guest in the company of my mother, Lady Dunmore. What did you think—”
“You are a guest here?”
Olivia frowned. Something was more than strange about this conversation. “I said that I was. Why else would I be here—”
“What were you doing wandering around before dawn?” he interrupted her, his tone hard and accusing.
“I could not sleep, not that it is any concern of yours. Why were you up? No. No, you needn’t answer. ’Tis clear enough why you were up: to make a drunken fool of yourself.”
It was a sharp set-down—deserved, to be sure. Nonetheless, Olivia was not accustomed to flinging insults at anyone. She’d never had the need. But this Mr. Hawke—Lord Hawke—seemed hardly to hear her curt remark.
“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. “You are a lady.”
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