The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (10 page)

To his immense relief, Imogen rose from her chair and approached him. Silently blessing her, Bucky edged away until they were near the door. It was as much privacy as they could get in a public place, and they didn’t dare speak more than a few words if they wanted to avoid the wrong kind of attention.

But Bucky had trouble holding on to caution as he watched her walk toward him, tall,
gray-eyed, and slender. She wore a blue dress that made her wheat-blond hair almost silver, as if she were made of light instead of flesh. He bowed over her hand, his mouth going a little dry.

For a girl he’d known most of his life, she had somehow learned the trick of taking his breath away.

“I thank you for the gift you sent me,” Imogen began, her voice low and her expression cautious.

He tried a smile. “You are very welcome.”

Imogen glanced over her shoulder, obviously checking to see if her mother was watching. She dropped her voice even lower. “Is it true you send the same sort of gifts to others from time to time?”

The question was abrupt and out of character for Imogen, but Bucky could see her agitation in her quick breaths and nervous fingers. And he thought he knew where this was going.
Damn you, Smythe
. But if he were caught in a lie, that would only make things worse. “Yes.”

She pulled her fingers out of his hand. “Oh.”

He rushed on, knowing he’d begun badly. “The gifts are all for different reasons. I send toys to children. I sent music boxes to my sisters. I sent you something a little more special, because you are special.” It had been one of his cleverest designs.

“I see.” Imogen fiddled with her reticule, tangling the strings in her fingers. Bucky couldn’t help noticing that the bag bulged and didn’t match her dress at all.

“What is it?” He could see her struggling with something she was hesitant to mention. Something a young lady couldn’t easily express—especially not in Lady Porter’s drawing room. “If it is something Captain Smythe said, I wouldn’t give it much credence.”

She darted him a quick look. “The captain was being unpleasant, but he was right about one point. You do have a wide acquaintance.”

“I do.” He knew she meant a wide female acquaintance. Damn Smythe. He always put in just enough truth to make his stories seem real—and to make every explanation sound feeble. “I grew up with sisters and enjoy the company of women. I have a lot of female friends.” And he had enjoyed many lovers—but all that was in the past now.

Imogen pursed her lips. “There is nothing wrong with that, of course.”

He smiled, trying to make it confident. “There is some sort of caveat in that statement.”

“I understand my gift was one of six you recently sent. Surely that’s not true?”

Bucky frowned. That information must have come from Smythe, but how had he known? Was he bribing the servants?

“Mr. Penner?” Imogen prompted.

Bucky hesitated another moment. He’d sent one present to the understudy, one to Miss Keating because she wasn’t feeling well, and there had been others, but Imogen’s was the only one he’d meant as a token of love. “It is, but—”

Imogen made a tiny gesture. “Well, there it is.”

“Where is what?”

She blinked, looking down at her reticule. “It is as Captain Smythe said. I mistook your intentions, and for that I apologize.”

“What did he say?” Bucky growled loudly enough to turn a few heads. To his dismay, he saw Lady Bancroft rise from her chair and start walking their way.

“Over these last few months, I thought you had singled me out.”

“I have. I did.” They’d had limited time together, which had made it hard to show his
preference, but he thought he’d done a good job until now. “You are extremely special to me.”

“One of six,” she said dryly.

“The others aren’t the same. You know that.”

“Do I?” Imogen cocked an eyebrow. It was her only reply, because Lady Bancroft was at her daughter’s side.

“Miss Roth,” he began, but a look from Lady Bancroft squashed whatever he was going to say.

“How pleasant to see you, Mr. Penner,” Lady Bancroft said in a tone that made it clear the opposite was true.

He bowed, but before he could frame any other response, the woman was steering her daughter back to their seats.
Thunder and damnation!
Bucky’s fists closed, aching to grab Imogen and set her straight. Maybe he hadn’t gone about things the right way, but she should know better than to doubt him.

Or should she? They’d danced a few dances, and kissed, and passed a few letters—but their real conversations had all but dried up the moment Lord Bancroft found out that Bucky wanted to be something more than Tobias’s school friend. Imogen mostly knew the Bucky who’d sat at their dinner table before falling in love. The one who’d painted her cat yellow. He winced.

How the blazes was he going to set this right?

July 1888

Devonshire

Bucky snarled with satisfaction as—a week later and after many miles on horseback—he smashed his fist into Smythe’s face, sending the man careening into the ballroom’s brocaded wallpaper. The back of Smythe’s head hit the plaster with a resounding smack, and a whoop went up from somewhere in the crowd of Devonshire’s respectable gentry that sounded suspiciously like young Poppy Roth.

Bucky bounced on his toes as Smythe launched himself forward, bent on revenge. The captain was a slight man, but quick and fit. But Bucky was bigger and good in a brawl when he chose to be. Smythe’s shoulder caught him in the chest, making him wheeze, but the blow left Smythe open for a fist to the gut.

It was a good shot, sending Bucky’s opponent right back into the wall. Smythe slid down slowly, his military jacket rucking up around his ears as the braid caught on the flocked paper. A couple of his friends scampered to haul him up by the armpits.

Let it never be said that country balls lacked entertainment. A minute ago, they’d all been dancing.

“Blood and thunder, Penner!” Smythe complained, eyes watering. He wiggled his jaw, which would be black and blue before long. Too bad it still worked. “Where did you spring from?”

“I had a sudden desire to see Devonshire,” Bucky returned coldly. “Imagine my surprise to find you here.” Actually, he’d known Smythe would be near Horne Hill. The thought of the captain lurking near Imogen all summer had been more than he could bear, so he had followed—all the more eagerly because Smythe had left London before he’d been able to settle their score.

“You have a damned strange way of greeting a fellow.” Smythe shook off his rescuers and pulled out his handkerchief with a flutter, dabbing the cut on his lip. The scarlet blood
looked almost dashing against the blue of his hussar’s uniform.

Then Bucky became aware of the eerie silence in the room. The scene should have been pleasant—the soft gold light of the fading July sun gilding the room and glittering on the punch bowl and glasses—but all around Bucky and Smythe, the other dancers had stopped and were staring like a field of sheep. Bucky twitched with the effort to hide his discomfort.

Summer meant the fashionable retired to the country to wait out the heat, and so the cream of the local nobility was there—which brought him back to the fifty-odd pairs of eyes staring them into the polished wood floor. His skin prickled with the attention of the crowd and he fell back a step, pulling his thoughts into some kind of order. He had been clenching his jaw so hard, the muscles of his head and neck pulsed with pain. “I demand an apology, Smythe.”

“I think not,” the captain shot back. “I only apologize if I’m incorrect.”

Angrily, Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself just in time. However many eyes were on him, there were just as many ears. There was no way he could repeat the specifics in public. “You lie. You were simply making mischief.”

He glanced up quickly, unwilling to let his attention wander from Smythe for long. But in that brief survey of the company, he’d seen Imogen, tall and delicate as a lily among the dark coats of her suitors. There had been anxiety in her soft gray eyes—and he hoped it had been for him. He prayed to whatever gods still watched lovers that she hadn’t closed her mind to everything but what Smythe had said.

“Then we should settle this like gentlemen,” Smythe said grimly.

“Gentlemen?” Bucky scoffed. The man strained the definition.

“I’m being generous with your breeding,” Smythe shot back.

Bucky remembered the moment at Lady Porter’s when Imogen had turned and walked
away, distress in the set of her shoulders, in the line of her graceful back. Bucky hit Smythe again, just because. If the captain wanted a fight, he had one.

Bucky bent down, his face inches from Smythe’s. The man’s nose looked wrong and was streaming blood in a bubbling mass. He’d clearly broken it. A hot rush of revulsion and satisfaction heated Bucky’s entire frame. “You’d better be planning to unravel this knot you’ve made,” he growled.

Smythe curled his lip, revealing bloody teeth. “Beating me senseless won’t prove a thing.”

“According to your logic, women love a victor and hate a coward. Maybe a beating is just the thing.”

“Then I demand satisfaction, and I have a box of lucky bullets with your name on them.”

The moment went to Bucky’s head, drugging him with a sense of invincibility. “So be it.”

* * *

“Surely you are in jest!” Imogen cried. “Captain Smythe to call on me? Surely he won’t be going out in public! His face is going to be black and blue after Mr. Penner hit him.”

“Then don’t you think he deserves your sympathy?” her mother asked pointedly.

“I doubt it. I
know
he had something to do with that fracas at the ball last night.” And it annoyed her enormously that no one would tell her the details.

Lady Bancroft had the same fair coloring as Imogen, and the same tall, slender frame as all her children. She always dressed in pale hues, which unfortunately made her seem translucent as ice, especially against the dark burgundy hues of the sitting room. “And yet it was young Mr.
Penner our host showed to the door,” Lady Bancroft said briskly. “Are you saying the Earl of Hendon was in error?”

Because an earl obviously can’t be wrong. Their blue blood won’t allow it
. Imogen suddenly realized why heroines stamped their feet, wrung their hands, and made all of those other witless, futile gestures. It was hard to be furious in a ladylike fashion. She took a gulp of air and tried to reason with her mother. “The earl does not know Bucky as I do. As you do. Bucky’s been Tobias’s best friend and a visitor to this house for years. You know he wouldn’t get into a fight without good cause.”

Then she realized she was defending Bucky, and sadness rushed in like a tide. She’d hoped he’d find a way to speak to her after that awful afternoon at Lady Porter’s, but he hadn’t. Not that there had been much chance—they’d left for the country soon after—but …

She’d wanted him to prove to her she was his one true love. Sadly, that was the stuff of storybooks, and Imogen was rapidly learning that the world didn’t work that way.

Lady Bancroft waved her defense away. She paced to the other end of the room and back, her skirts swirling against the velvet stools and dainty side tables that crowded the overdecorated room. “Tobias is in London, more’s the pity. He at least would keep Buckingham Penner in line.”

Imogen rather thought it was the other way around. Bucky had been an inventive prankster growing up, but her brother, Tobias, was the true devotee of chaos. But none of that mattered now. It was clear she had to carry on without her sibling’s help.

“Captain Smythe will be here tomorrow at two,” her mother said relentlessly. “Wear something pretty.”

Imogen struggled not to scream. “He can’t do that. He’ll be black and blue from the
fight.”

“Perhaps he means to show his devotion by letting you see his bruises.”

“The man is a vainglorious peacock. Someday he’ll be sent to China with an allowance and best wishes for a case of the yellow fever. The only reason he’s calling is because I declined the honor of dancing with him last night. He has to prove to himself that I will swoon at his command.”

“Then you’d best be quick about it so that we can all move on. After he leaves, Mr. Whitlock is calling at three.”

“Stanford Whitlock?” Imogen said faintly.

“Who else? He is a very faithful caller.”

“The same could be said of certain skin conditions.”

A look of annoyance crossed her mother’s face. “Imogen, you must marry someone. And soon. Your father needs you to make a good match.”

“I don’t like either of them.”

Her mother glanced down at her hands, lines of tension bracketing her mouth. Imogen wondered how long it would be before her own face fell into those defeated angles. “It’s time you grew up and faced facts. I am well aware you have a preference for Mr. Penner, but your father will never permit the match.”

Fury washed through Imogen so intensely that she sat down on the piano bench before she grew light-headed. She loved her mother, but sometimes it felt as if they were speaking in entirely different tongues. Imogen might have spun entire epics about why she wanted Bucky, but her mother only understood the most prosaic facts.

It was just as well that Imogen didn’t have to plead her case. “I doubt that Mr. Penner
will be making an offer.”

Her mother made a sound that spoke of faint surprise. “Just as well. He’s not our kind.”

That perverse urge to defend him reared up again. “His father has money. Lots of it. Bucky is his heir.”

“The Penners are commoners.” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Buckingham’s grandfather began his career in a Yorkshire blacksmith’s shop. What can people like that do for us?”

They could make me happy
. The Penners were boisterous and opinionated, but they laughed and loved one another fiercely. Bucky wasn’t the kind of man who dominated a room, but he cared about the people in the room and that suited her far better. But her happiness had never been her father’s primary concern. And neither, it seemed, was it Bucky’s—at least not enough to single her out from his harem. Imogen cursed herself for caring, but it was a devil of a habit to break.
I want him so much. Why doesn’t he want me the same way?