The Counterfeit Gentleman (6 page)

Knowing she was being a fool did not prevent her from
feeling jealous at the thought of another woman in this
man’s arms, and she surreptitiously used the quilt to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

As irrational as it was, she felt that she belonged some
how to Mr. Rendel. Which meant he must also belong to
her, did it not? Or did saving her life involve an obligation only on her part?

Mr. Rendel was as careful as her dresser would have
been, first working out all the snarls, then pulling the brush in long, soothing strokes through her hair.

But his touch was like a lover’s caress, and his very gen
tleness sent shivers up and down her spine. She could not forget that he was not her maid—that he was every inch a
man.

Maybe he was a gentleman ... but then again, maybe he
was not. At this moment she felt so odd, she was not at all
certain in her own mind which she wished him to be.

Were these strange feelings natural after one had nar
rowly escaped death? Were they merely a kind of hysteria
brought on by having almost been murdered? She disremembered hearing about other people’s near escapes from death—coming a rasper on the hunting field being some
thing altogether different.

No, she was the only person she knew who’d had a near
fatal accident—in her case more than one. On the way back
from Hampton Court Palace, Lord Keppel had saved her
from what could have been a fatal fall from her horse. But
now that she considered the matter, she felt nothing more
for him than the same gratitude she had felt for the un
known merchant who had prevented her from falling under
the wheels of the brewer’s wagon.

Which could mean that the intensity of emotion she was now feeling was not—or at least not entirely—the result of
Mr. Rendel’s having saved her life.

Unfortunately, the longer he brushed her hair, the more
difficult it was becoming for her to keep her thoughts in
order. “I think you shall have to marry me,” she murmured,
not aware of what her words would be until it was too late
to call them back.

“And I think you have had quite enough to drink,” Mr. Rendel said, laying down the brush and lifting the
empty cup from her hand.

Bethia knew it was not the punch talking, but a strange lassitude was making it difficult to debate the matter prop
erly. She did not utter any objections when Mr. Rendel
picked her up, quilt and all, and carried her through the
doorway into the next room, which turned out to be a reassuringly masculine bedroom.

He laid her down between sheets that smelled of sun
shine and lavender, then pulled more blankets around her,
tucking her in as if she were a small child.

Only when he did not lie down beside her on the bed,
which was wide enough for two, did she try to protest.
“Don’t leave me alone,” she said, her tongue feeling rather thick in her mouth. “Please stay with me.”

“I will be close at hand,” he said, “and I will come at
once if you need me.”

“I need you now,” she said, feeling no surprise or shame at her own boldness, but he merely chuckled and went out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

She was too tired to climb out of the bed and follow
him ... too tired to insist
...
or perhaps she had indeed imbibed too much of the spicy punch.

Still and all, marrying Mr. Rendel was a remarkably
good idea, and she felt proud of her cleverness at thinking
of such a thoroughly splendid solution to her problems.

She had no doubt at all that she would like being married to him—to this man who had emerged like the god Neptune
from the sea to save her from a watery grave.

Not only was Mr. Rendel singularly attractive, but she
knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could trust him
with her life. And once they were married, she would no
longer be in danger of assassination.

Curled up in his bed, her head on his pillow, she tried to
stay awake to plan what had to be done—what arguments she might use to convince him—but it became harder and
harder to fight against her fatigue.

Finally giving up the losing battle, she allowed herself to drift off to sleep, and just before consciousness faded completely, it seemed to her that she could feel his arms around
her
...
but she was too tired to open her eyes and see if he
was really there or if he was merely a figment of her imagination.

* * * *

It had been a mistake, Digory realized, to have given her any punch. Hot tea would have doubtless been adequate to warm her, although in truth he could not have foreseen that
she would help herself to several cups of the spicy bever
age.

Stone sober she would never, of course, have proposed marriage with a total stranger, nor would she have invited
him to join her in bed.

Scruples were a damnable burden at times, and never
more so than when she had looked up at him, her eyes and her voice both pleading with him to stay with her.

But there were murderers abroad tonight, and there were
few enough hours left to prepare a trap. Checking one last
time to be sure his guest was still sleeping, Digory let himself out of his cottage, locking the door behind him.

It had been nearly a year since he had given up smug
gling, and when he sent word that there would be a meeting
tonight, Jem and the others would all be quick to say, “I
told you so.”

None of them had actually believed Digory was serious
when he’d announced his retirement, but he minded not
that tonight would bring their ridicule down upon his head, so long as they were willing to help him.

It was a measure of how much distance he had put be
tween himself and his former subordinates that he did not
even know if they were here in Cornwall. They could easily
be in France, purchasing a boatload of kegs filled with
brandy. Or given that it was the dark of the moon, they
might be planning to move a load inland tonight.

On that point, Mrs. Pollock was able to reassure him.
Jem, who was her sister’s son, and the other smugglers
were presently between trips, and she offered to send one
of her boys to pass the word that Digory wanted to see
them.

Although she invited him to join her family for a bite of supper, Digory could not completely stifle the feeling that
something unforeseen might have occurred in his ab
sence—or even merely that Miss Pepperell might have
awakened and found him gone, which would have been bad
enough—so he declined his neighbor’s offer and walked as quickly as possible back along the lane to his own cottage.

Entering it, he found everything precisely as he had left
it, and when he peeked into the bedroom, his guest did not appear to have moved a muscle during his absence.

The dress she had left hanging before the fire was dry,
but when Digory examined it, he found it would need more
than a good pressing to set it to rights. Luckily, his guest
was approximately the same size as his aunt had been.

Opening a small trunk that served double duty as a win
dow seat, he extracted one of his aunt’s dresses. It was not
at all modish, but at least Miss Pepperell would have a
choice come morning.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, he placed both garments on
a chair where she would be sure to notice them when she
awoke.

He was not as quiet as he might have wished, but his
guest did not even stir. Seeing her lying there so peacefully,
Digory was again sorely tempted to crawl into bed and
spend the rest of the night holding her in his arms.

If he were a gentleman, he would have the right to marry her and share her bed. But he was no gentleman. That being the case, why should he be expected to act like a gentleman
and leave her untouched?

There was no answer to that question, but in the end he
tiptoed out of the room, this time closing the door firmly
behind him.

* * * *

The tedium of sitting in a waterfront tavern for an entire
day and what looked as if it would be an entire night made it necessary for Mr. Harcourt to remind himself repeatedly
of the rewards that would soon be his if only he used suffi
cient patience at this crucial point in his marvelous scheme.

Fortunately, what he had most feared—that one or both
of the two men he had hired might be cursed with a loose
tongue—did not seem to be the case. Unfortunately, they both seemed to have hollow legs, which the bar maid was
doing her best to fill.

Several times he had almost made up his mind to leave
his hirelings alone—to risk having one of them say some
thing untoward, which might later make someone suspect that the accidental drowning was no accident. But the pos
sibility of losing the fortune he had pursued for so long—
no matter how slight the risk might be—had kept him there.

After what he had endured this day, it would be a genuine
pleasure to start both Jack Williams and Dick Fane off on
their journey to Hades. But first they had to finish the task they had been hired to do. Once they discovered the body, then he could appear on the scene in his rightful identity—
the distraught, grief-stricken cousin who had known the un
fortunate child was depressed after her grandfather’s death,
but who had not thought she would be driven to suicide.

He would not, of course, try to persuade the magistrate
that Bethia had killed herself. Rather he would try so hard to persuade everyone that she had
not
killed herself, that
they would, of a certainty, be brought to believe just that.

With luck, the body would come in with tomorrow’s
tide, or so Williams had asserted. If not tomorrow, then the
next day for sure.

It had better be tomorrow, Mr. Harcourt decided, for he
did not have the stomach to sit a second day in this tavern.

Within twelve hours—thirty-six at the outside—he
would be an extremely rich man. Perhaps before he re
moved Fane and Williams permanently from his life, he
should consider if there might not be some way he could
arrange to divide his uncle’s money up two ways instead of
three.

One unfortunate accident, and he could have half again
as much as he now stood to inherit. And if there were a pair
of unfortunate accidents? But then again, one must take
into account that too many accidental deaths might arouse
suspicion.

In any event, there was no need to decide right at this moment which of his brothers it would be easiest to dispose of. First he must do his utmost to see to it that poor little Bethia
would be allowed the benefits of a Christian burial, even
though everyone would believe that she had taken her own
life.

* * * *

Digory’s former crew came shortly before midnight, and although none of them actually said, “I told you so,” their
smirks made it obvious that was exactly what they were all
thinking. And never had retirement seemed so pointless as
now, when Digory looked around the circle of men—Jem
Caravick, who was well endowed with common sense plus the instincts he needed to be a successful smuggler; Harry
Tankyn, who had no ambitions to be anything more than he
was; and Big Davey Veryan, and his cousin Little Davey Veryan, who were the two largest men in the parish.

His crew—for a dozen years they had been with him
through innumerable dangers, and the bond that had been forged between them was unbreakable.

But it was only their companionship that Digory missed;
he could do without the smuggling. For him the excite
ment—and with it the enjoyment—had gone out of the
trade long before he had actually retired.

“Just like old times,” Harry said with a grin. “So when
do we sail, and is it kegs we’ll be smuggling past the preventatives, or is it men?”

“This time,” Digory replied with an answering smile,
“we do things backward. Today we are going to play the
role of preventatives and hide on the beach.”

It was not the wisest way he could have broached the
subject, because the circle of eyes around him instantly be
came hostile. It would seem, after all, that the friendship
between them could indeed be broken.

Abandoning any further attempts at humor, Digory
quickly told them what had happened earlier that day, and how the hired ruffians intended to finish the job at high tide and collect their reward.