The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) (4 page)

    “I’ve no intention of purchasing a pony for my niece, at the moment. She’s barely a year old. She’d fall and break her little neck.”
    Her eyes widened. “So you lied to me? Shame on you my lord. Another falsehood. And I thought you never skirted the truth. Your good intentions and breeding have failed you.”
    “Would you please stop turning my words around on me? I’ll buy her one, eventually,” he muttered. “I simply needed a few moments of your time in order to advise you that I’m plotting revenge over the unfortunate remarks you made regarding my need for a wife. I plan to round up every spotty faced, fortune hunting fob I can find and hint in a not so subtle fashion that you’ve set your cap for them.”
    “I do beg your pardon. My only intent was to help a friend in need. However, if you make good your threat, I will inform Aunt Mirabella that you would prefer a stout, not overly attractive, serious-minded young lady for a wife in order to offset your own free spirited, reckless nature.”
    “You wouldn’t dare.”
    “You don’t care for stout, unattractive, serious minded young women?”
    “As you well know, I most certainly do not. But this is getting far too brutal. It’s time for a truce before we both end up with a match made in hell.”
    She broke into a rich melodious laughter. It pleased him to see how her face lit up with pleasure, how her eyes brightened when she laughed.
    “Agreed,” she said. “Though it would be terribly amusing to see you courting a blue stocking.”
    “It would bring untold misery to the young lady as well as myself. I would much rather court…” He stopped the words before they escaped his mouth.
A tall, green eyed minx with copper curls that never stay put.
    “Yes?” she prompted.
    “I don’t really know,” he finished lamely. “I suppose I’d rather not court anyone at the moment.”
    He left the house on an odd note, the teasing banter between them gone. He wasn’t certain what had transpired between them but he decided that it would be best if he kept his distance. It would be damned difficult, but it would be best. Resigned to his decision he nudged Hudson toward Bryony Hall.

P
alladian of weathered gray stone, graceful columns and ivy covered walls was immensely impressive. Its owners were rarely present, but Bryony Hall was well tended by its large staff of servants. The terraced gardens at the rear of the house led to vast manicured parklands complete with a summer house, gazebo and a number of ponds. The outskirts of the property were bound by heavily wooded grounds, where game was plentiful. In addition to a hunting lodge, there were a number of cottages where the groundskeepers lived. Happy to enjoy the fortune he had amassed from his profitable shipping business, his great-grandsire had begun building the country house in the earliest part of the previous century. It had been named for his wife.
    As always, a gamut of emotions ran through Rand as he stared at the house. Good memories spoiled by bad ones. He generally spent Christmas week here with his mother and his sister’s family, but other than that, he rarely visited. Not since his father had died. The memory of that last meeting with his father was enough to keep him away. His father had been a philanderer as well as a drunk. He would toss up the skirts of any wench who was willing and especially when he was deep in his cups, those who weren’t. Had he been discreet, Rand might have overlooked his father’s excesses. It wasn’t unusual for a married man to keep a mistress, but William Danfield had taken no pains to keep his affairs quiet. In fact he seemed to delight in parading his whores and paramours in front of his wife. Rand’s mother had handled it with amazing dignity and grace and he had often wondered how she managed to refrain from putting a bullet between the man’s eyes.
    When it reached the point where he was no longer welcome in most of the drawing rooms and gentleman’s clubs of London, William Thomas Danfield had been forced to 'rusticate' at Bryony Hall where though the opportunities for whoring were much less plentiful, he could continue that and his drunkenness without censure. But it had all come to a head when at the age of twenty Rand had mistakenly opened correspondence meant for his father and discovered that William had sired a number of bastard children. Eleven in fact, though not all had been discovered at that time. William was not particularly generous to the children and the letter Rand had opened was from his father’s solicitor detailing the monthly expenses incurred for their upkeep. The solicitor had urged William to increase his provisions as several of the children were sickly. This revelation was enough to send Rand to the stables where he had his horse saddled and he immediately left for Bryony Hall to confront his father.
    It had only been six months since he had last seen him, but when Rand caught first glimpse of his father, he was stunned by William’s appearance. Not yet fifty, his years of indulgence had turned him into an old man. Slumped shoulders and a bloated belly had replaced the once athletic build. He was moon faced and jaundiced, the area around his dark eyes swollen until they resembled little more than black slits. His hands trembled and his gait was unsteady. Drunk or not, it was easy to see that he was not a well man. But Rand hadn’t cared. Hours on the road had not diminished his anger and he reacted rather than thought as he charged into the library, grabbed his father by his lapel and planted his fist in his face. The man went heavily to the floor. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, but he seemed more surprised than hurt.
    “What in the devil did you do that for?” he bellowed.
    Rand tossed a handkerchief at him but didn’t offer to help him up. He simply stood there looking down on the man he had once loved and admired. Struggling to control his anger he asked quietly, “How many children do you have?”
    A look of uneasiness passed over his father’s face. “That’s a dim-witted question, lad. You know as well as I that you have one sister.”
    “Other than Julia.”
    “Your mother gave birth to you and Julia. If there are others, it isn’t your affair.”
    His anger resurfaced and boiled over. “The hell they aren’t!” he shouted. “If I’ve brothers and sisters, I’ve the right to know about it. You can’t just pretend they don’t exist! How many?”
    William wiped his mouth with the handkerchief. “Four or five. I think.”
    “Four or five?” Rand’s voice was incredulous. “I counted six names on the report Mansfield left. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others. Are there?”
    His father shrugged and looked away. “I’m not certain.”
    “You’re not certain,” he repeated. “You don’t know how many children you have. Do you even know what their names are?”
    “What difference does it make? They’re bastards! I send money. I’m not leaving them in the streets to starve. Despite what you think, I’m not completely heartless. Mansfield takes care of everything for me. I don’t get involved. Why the hell he sends me that report every month I’ve no idea. I never look at it.”
    “What about Mother? Does she know?”
    He shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
    “You don’t know. Do you have any idea of the pain you’ve caused her? The humiliation? You’ve whored around as if she mattered not a whit, yet she’s born it all with a dignity beyond belief. Julia and I would be social outcasts if Mother weren’t so loved by the ton.”
    “The Danfield empire has guaranteed your acceptance,” William spit out bitterly. “Not your mother. You wouldn’t be received at all if you were paupers. Half of those goddamned aristocrats who thumb their noses at me are so deep in dun territory they’d be out on their arses if all their notes were called in. If I wished, I could buy their bloody vowels in a heartbeat. Then where would they be? And don’t think I haven’t thought of doing it.” He curled his lips into a contemptuous smile, then took in ragged breath that evolved into a vicious fit of coughing. He picked up the handkerchief Rand had tossed him and brought it to his mouth. When he pulled it away it was covered with blood. He sat gasping for air, waiting until he could catch his breath before saying, “I do regret the pain I’ve caused your mother,” he said weakly. “And you and your sister as well. But I can’t change what I am. Not at this point. It’s far too late for that.”
    A mix of contempt and sorrow came over Rand. It was true. His father was a weak man. Physically, as well as morally. That would never change. “You look like death,” he pointed out. “You’re obviously ill. Is it the pox?”
    His father nodded slowly. “Among other things. My liver’s bad. I’ll be dead soon enough. God knows I hate the waiting, though. Every bone in my body aches. It hurts to breath. I’m coughing up blood. I can’t even piss without bringing tears to my eyes. Don’t tell your mother, lad. I don’t want her to know.”
    Knowing she would only be hurt by it, he nodded. “Mansfield wrote that two of the boys are extremely ill. One is blind. They need money for a doctor.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “They were born with the pox, weren’t they?”
    His father shrugged. “It’s possible. If it will make you feel better, see that they get what they need. I’ll let Mansfield know he should deal with you on that.”
    Rand tried to gather enough sympathy to offer his father some token of affection; a hand to help him to his feet, or even a simple farewell. But none was forthcoming. He felt nothing but contempt. He stared at his father, then turned to leave.
    Hurt and angry, William had taken a parting shot. “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately? I daresay you’ve had more women in your bed than most men twice you age. I’ve heard the stories. You’re just like me.”
    But he had crossed the library without pause and then departed Bryony Hall without saying a word to anyone other than a curt order to the stable hand to saddle up his horse.
    Four months later, his father was dead. Eleven years had passed, but those parting words still haunted him.
You’re just like me.
At times, he feared they were true. God knows he had adored the fairer sex as far back as he could remember. He loved their soft skin, sweet smelling hair and ripe curves. He loved dancing with them, holding them in his arms, but most of all he loved them in his bed and he had bedded more than he could count. Yet, with that in mind, he made every effort not to be like his father. He might be a rake and a scoundrel, but he never took a wench who wasn’t willing, was generous to a fault, never made promises he couldn’t keep or led them to expect more than he was willing to give, and he didn’t sire bastards. But he was also fearful that he could never be satisfied with just one woman and so he had made the decision not to marry. He would not subject another woman to the same pain and humiliation his mother had suffered. In that regard, he would not follow in his father’s footsteps. But now, everything had changed. Without a word he tossed Hudson’s reins to the stable lad who had materialized a few feet away, dismounted and headed toward the house.

Fishing pole in hand, the Marquis of Clarendon leaned back against the trunk of a willow tree and tugged the brim of his hat over his forehead. The air was redolent with the scents of summer; crushed grass and clover and the marshy smell of the stream. The heat of the sun and the hum of insects was enough to lull him into an idleness he hadn’t experienced in years. He’d never been much good at doing nothing and even though he held a fishing pole in his hand, that was precisely what he was doing. This was a day of planned idleness but even so, it pricked at his conscious. Whether business or pleasure, his life was filled with activity and sitting here felt very odd. His intention had been to relax a week or two before heading out to Devon and allowing his life to be forever changed. He had accepted his fate, but whether or not he could be happy with it was yet to be seen. He shut his eyes against the brightness of the sun glinting off the surface of the water.
    The air was still, but he heard a rustling across the stream. Behind him, Hudson, who was loosely tethered to a tree, nickered. His eyes opened as Cecelia emerged from the stand of willows that grew thickly on both sides of the stream. He actually stopped breathing for a moment. He had thought her lovely before but sitting atop the gleaming chestnut mare she was magnificent. Her face was shadowed beneath her bonnet but at this moment her face was not what gave her grace and presence. It was in the set of her shoulders and the way she sat her horse. She moved fluidly with the animal as if they were one. He would be hard-pressed to think of another woman who was so at ease with horseflesh.
    “Hallo, there,” she called out.
    Rand tilted back the brim of his hat. “Hallo, yourself. What are you doing here?”
    “Riding.” He could hear the laughter in her voice. “What are you doing?”
    “Fishing.”
    “So I see. Caught anything?”
    “Nothing worth keeping. Are you planning to cross or shall we continue shouting at one other across the water?”
    “I was waiting for an invitation. That side of the stream does belongs to you,” she pointed out. “Thank you. I believe I’ll cross.” She urged her mare into the water.
    Rand stared at her in disbelief. “Use the bridge for God’s sake! I don’t know how deep the water is along here.”
    “I do,” she answered gaily. “I don’t want to take the time to take the bridge.”
    “It wouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to ride down to the bridge.
    “Don’t fuss. We cross here all the time. Penny loves it.”
    Rand had to admit that the spirited animal seemed to enjoy the water. Though he suspected Cecelia was enjoying their trek across the stream even more. Midway across when the water reached the animal’s belly, she shrieked with laughter as she lifted the skirt of her riding habit a few inches to keep it from getting wet. He held his breath until the water grew shallow again. She reached the bank and slid off the saddle before he could help her down. Still laughing, she shook the water off her skirts and led the mare to a branch where she tethered her, leaving enough slack to allow her to graze. “That was fun! For a moment I thought I might have to swim.”
    “Didn’t you know how deep it was? You said you crossed here all the time.”
    “Not at precisely this point,” she admitted. “And not since it last rained.”
    He wanted to shake her. “You little ninny! You could have drowned.”
    “Nonsense. I’m an excellent swimmer. You know that. I’ve been swimming since I was five. Now, why such ill luck with your fishing? What are you using for bait?”
    “Never mind that. Where’s your escort?”
    “I don’t have one.” She sat down on a stump set in the middle of a patch of wildflowers and smiled at him. “I’m allowed to ride without an escort as long as I don’t venture past the orchard. Eugene wasn’t very happy about it but it’s Papa’s rule, not his.”
    “This is well past the orchard, brat.”
    “Oh? Is it?” She painted an innocent expression on her face and took stock of her surroundings. “Oh, my. I didn’t realize. I must have lost my bearings.”
    He snorted. “You’re an abominable liar. If you must fabricate, try not to contradict yourself up every time you open your mouth.”
    “It isn’t very kind of you to mention my mistakes,” she replied. “A gentleman wouldn’t do so.”
    “As you’ve been so kind to point out, I’m a rake and a rogue, not a gentleman. And that said, it isn’t very wise of you to be here with me. I’m thinking of your reputation as well as your safety.”
    “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she groaned. “Who’s to see us? Besides. You invited me to cross the stream.”
    “I thought I was inviting you to cross the bridge.” He shrugged. He had to admit she was right. They were in an exceptionally isolated area. Other than fish, fowl or four-legged creatures, the prospect of anyone seeing them was highly unlikely. Her reputation might not be threatened, but her safety was a different matter altogether. He found her disturbingly attractive and secluded as they were, he wasn’t certain of his own self-restraint. But it wasn’t something he could very well explain to her so, he let it rest.
    She absently plucked a few daisies from the patch. “I’m running away,” she announced.
    He looked at her sharply. “You most certainly are not!”
    She burst into laughter. He thought it was a lovely sound. Light and melodious, far different from the disingenuous laughter he had grown so tired of hearing from most young ladies of the ton.
    “You look just like Eugene does when he gets exasperated with me. The two of you are far stricter than Papa ever thought of being.”
    “Only because you have the earl wrapped around your little finger,” he retorted. “You give him a woeful, doe-eyed look and he melts.”
    “That’s not it at all,” she protested. “He simply appreciates having a daughter who isn’t histrionic and demanding and he has given me a little extra leeway because I’m very level headed. You know as well as I, that had Arabella tried to cross the stream, the moment water touched her boots she would have screamed and fainted dead into the water. And then someone would have had to save her because even though the water isn’t more than waist deep, she would think she was drowning. She has never even learned to swim! Had I been Papa I would have tossed her in the lake and made her learn. She may be three years my elder, but I handle myself far better than she does. Her husband has the patience of Job.”
    Rand chuckled at the picture she painted then realized she had successfully veered him away from their original topic. “Arabella would have crossed at the bridge and you’re still not running away.”
    “Only for the afternoon. I just had to get away from the house a bit. I spent most of the morning reading a horrid gothic novel to Aunt Mirabella. Thank goodness, she finally dropped off to sleep. My jaw was beginning to ache. It’s just so deadly dull around here without Priscilla. I miss having her about. Most of my friends are in Brighton. I wouldn’t be in this fix if Eugene hadn’t insisted we come back to Surrey, rather than spend the month in Brighton with everyone else.”
    “That doesn’t explain why you found it necessary to ride this far north without an escort.”
    Her eyes widened. “It doesn’t?”
    He gritted his teeth. "I’m fairly close to boxing your ears, Cecelia. No, it doesn’t.”
    “I’m bored.”
    “You’re bored,” he said. “And if you get found out, you’re also in big trouble.”
    She frowned as if the thought had never occurred to her. “You won’t tell on me, will you?”
    “No, but I won’t lie if I’m asked.”
    She nodded her head and said, “That seems fair enough.” She picked a few more daisies began looping the stems and interlocking the stems to create a chain. Several moments passed before she broke their silence. “Tell me something… Why have you stayed away? I can’t remember the last time you were at Bryony Hall.”
    “My business keeps me in London.”
    “But we’re not terribly far from London.”
    “I’ve been here,” he said shortly. “You weren’t here at the same time. You’ve spent the last few Christmas’s in Mayfair.”
    “Oh.” Cecelia fell quiet and resumed weaving her chain of wildflowers, though whether she had accepted his explanation or simply accepted his reluctance to talk about it, he didn’t know.
    Fascinated, he couldn’t help but watch as she concentrated on looping and weaving the stems. She wasn’t doing a thing to tempt him. Not intentionally. But he was finding her fresh faced innocence immensely engaging. And when she looked up at him and smiled he simply smiled back, instead of looking away and pretending he hadn’t been caught staring.
    Suddenly she laughed. “You’re not having any success at all are you? Maybe you’ve lost your touch.”
    He hadn’t a clue as to what she was talking about. “At what?”
    “Fishing.”
    He did his best to look mortally offended. “Impossible.”
    She held up the chain to examine her handiwork. “Do you remember when you and Eugene took me fishing and I caught more fish than both of you put together? The two of you were very put out with me, but I had the grandest time.”
    “Beginners luck.”
    She shook her head. “Superior skill.”
    “At age six?” he queried.
    “Yes, at age six. And I’ve improved.”
    “Have you now?” He nodded at the fishing pole. “By all means, have a go at it.”
    “I can’t do any worse than you,” she said. “You haven’t been paying the slightest bit of attention to what you’re doing. A whale could be nibbling on your line right now and you wouldn’t even know it.”
    “There are no whales in this stream,”
    She rose, brushed her skirts off and came towards him. “Let me show you how it’s done, my lord.”
    “Aren’t we confident?”
    “Yes, we are.” She took the rod from him and with an air of proficiency, recast the line. “You will be having fish for dinner.”
    “And you,” he retorted. “Will be having crow.”
    “I think not.”
    He had to admit that she looked very competent with a fishing rod in her hand, and he wasn’t at all certain that she wouldn’t catch a good sized fish. The idea of being bested by a young lady was not to his liking, and he knelt down and began rummaging loudly through the basket his cook had prepared. “Would you care for anything?” he called out. “Anton has packed pears, cheese, a loaf of bread and some wine.”
    “No, thank you. As you can see, my hands are full at the moment.”
    “The pears are excellent.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “I can offer you apple tarts or raisin scones,” he continued.
    “No, thank you,” she repeated a little louder.
    “Roast pheasant or a suckling pig?”
    “There isn’t any roast pheasant or suckling pig in that basket,” she answered. “Now, quit trying to distract me. If I don’t concentrate, I won’t feel that first nibble and if I don’t feel that first nibble, I won’t catch any fish and I won’t win our wager.”
    Rand was beginning to wonder if the fresh air had addled his brain. He didn’t remember making a wager. “Do we have a wager?”
    “Not exactly,” she admitted. “It was an implied wager, rather than spoken. I’m betting that I can catch a larger fish than you can. Now, how big was the largest fish you threw back? One inch?” she said mischievously. “Maybe two? Or did you catch any?”
    He returned the items to the basket and stood up. “Nothing worth mentioning,” he said evasively. "I believe this is simply a bad spot. I should have gone further upstream.”
    “Men always make excuses.”
    He chuckled. “Back to this wager of ours. A wager isn’t really a proper wager, unless something is at stake. There must be a prize, otherwise, what’s the point?”
    “Well, you would know that better than I would. My experience at wagering is minimal. Mmm.” She wrinkled her brow as she thought. “I’ve got it! If I win, you must clean and cook the fish here, over a campfire, with whatever means you have at hand.”
    
Easy enough.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, though she had no way of knowing that. “Agreed,” he said. “But if you lose?”
    “I won’t.” She offered a smug smile.
    He shook his head. “No stake. No wager.”
    “Then, you decide if you must, but it won’t matter because…” She bit her lip in concentration as she gave a quick tug on the rod. It bent with the weight of its prey as she slowly began to back up. “Get the net!” A large flash of silver caught the sun, as a good sized trout leapt from the water and then disappeared with barely a splash.
    Wearing an expression of sheer delight she cried, “Oh, brilliant! I’ve got him good!” He caught his breath at the vision before him. She was positively glowing with
    happiness and he thought he had never seen anyone quite so lovely. Her cheeks were a dusty pink; her green eyes glittered with excitement. She was liquid sunshine and joy and her innocence was enough to bring him to his knees. And had he not forced himself to look down, he would have never seen the fallen log directly behind her as she backed up. He closed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, catching her by the waist as she stumbled. She fell against him with a jolt, her hands flung out for balance and the rod landed in the water only to be pulled downstream. There was silence as they watched it disappear.
    "I lost,” she said breathlessly.
    His arms were still wrapped around her slim waist, one hand precariously close to her breast. He made no attempt to release her and she made no attempt to move away. Holding her in his arms seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was a very comfortable fit. Without thinking he reached up, tugged on the ribbons of her bonnet, plucked it off her head and dropped it to the ground. In the sunlight her hair gleamed like burnished copper. It was barely tamed, loose waves escaping from her untidy coiffure. Closing his eyes he rubbed his cheek against it. She smelled of rose water and lemons and sunshine. He wanted to take the pins out and run his fingers through her hair.
    “I lost,” she repeated softly. “Name your prize.”
    It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing. He didn’t know which. All he knew was that if he didn’t kiss her he would probably expire on the spot. He turned her around and cupping her chin with the palm of his hand he tilted her face up. Her lips were slightly parted, her emerald eyes wide with expectation. She moistened her bottom lip with her tongue. It was an artless gesture but it was his final undoing and he lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her tenderly at first, caressing her lips with his own. She was, after all a virgin. But she was an enthusiastic virgin and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Not with any degree of experience, but with great eagerness. She pressed her body up against his and he lost what little self-control he had left. One hand went to the back of her head, his fingers threaded through the mass of bright curly hair. The other went to the curve of her bottom, pressing her up against his groin. His tongue filled her mouth tasting her sweetness and she immediately responded in kind without the slightest hesitation. She was sweet and innocent, but so passionate. The combination was irresistible. It occurred to him that he had never kissed a virgin before. Not really. Not like this.