Yankee Earl (24 page)

      
But he had imagined that Rachel Fairchild would be plain, gawky…horsey. She was none of those. Overly tall, yes. So was his friend Joss, but there the resemblance ended. While Joss was thin with mousy hair tied up in a frizzy knot and wore thick spectacles, this female possessed all the curves requisite for her gender.

      
Rachel's hair was thick and lustrous, draped over one shoulder in a fat plait, and her clear, unsquinting eyes peered at him intently. Although her gown was not all the crack, the aqua mull flattered her complexion and hung gracefully as she moved toward him.

      
He clicked his heels and bowed, noting that she did not offer her hand for a salute. “Alvin Francis Edward Drummond, at your service, Miss Fairchild.”

      
Rachel inclined her head. “And what brings you here, Mr. Drummond?”

      
“Please forgive my untoward behavior. I know the hour is late and we have not been properly introduced, but—”

      
“But you want to see for yourself if I am as dreadful as Jason believes me to be?” she said wryly. At his look of utter consternation, Rachel felt a hint of a smile tug at her lips. She had not smiled often since coming to London.

      
“I assure you, Miss Fairchild, that my friend holds you in the highest esteem. After all, you are to be wed in less than a month.”

      
“Will you stand as witness?” some imp made her ask.

      
He paled but nodded. “Yes, if he asks me, I will be honored to do so. But that brings me to a rather delicate point…”

      
When he hesitated, she gestured for him to take a seat on a shield-back chair, then rang for refreshments and sat down on the cabriole sofa directly across from him. “And that point is?” she inquired, looking him straight in the eye.

* * * *

      
Jason had indeed drunk himself sober. It was a phenomenon not altogether unknown to him, but those other occasions had been mostly celebratory after weeks at sea. This was different. He was as tense as a coiled wire and angry enough to pick a fight with a tavern full of drunken tars. In fact, the more he considered the latter idea, the better he liked it. He was sick of being under lock and key, watched like a lad not out of leading strings. Sick to death of lying awake night after night for fear of dreaming about Rachel.

      
Rachel swathed in gauzy silk and lace…Rachel whose butterscotch skin he was dying to caress…Rachel who proposed this obscene charade of a marriage of convenience.
Her convenience—certainly not mine!
Jason had been the one to jump to the conclusion that they not consummate the union, but he was in no condition to recognize that fact. After all, he did not really wish to be leg-shackled—did he?

      
But he wanted Rachel in his bed. If it were not for his grandfather's machinations, Jason would have had her by now. And no marriage, convenient or otherwise!

      
“I have to get out of here before I run mad,” he muttered aloud, combing his fingers through his hair. He rang for his valet and ordered a bath and a fresh change of clothing. How excellent that Drum had hied himself off somewhere or other. With luck, Jason would be off before the dandy returned to stand guard.

      
Within the hour he was dressed and stepping into his coach over the flustered protests of his valet, the butler, housekeeper and a host of other servants. Only the stolid old stableman who had brought the coach around had stood up to him, saying that his lordship would go nowhere without two of the footmen to watch his backside. Knowing that they could not follow him into any of the gentlemen's clubs, Jason had graciously agreed.

      
The stars shone brightly after a sudden early-evening storm. The earl stepped down from his coach and made his way past a series of water puddles to the doors of Brooks. When they opened to admit him, his servants were forced to cool their heels outside, assured that no harm could befall his lordship in one of the most exclusive haunts of the ton. What they did not know was that Jason stayed only long enough to play one hand of whist with Baron Waverly and his sycophants, then slipped out the side entry and hailed a hackney to take him to the East End gambling hells.

      
If he could not get drunk and did not find any of the ladies of the evening to his liking, he could at least manage to lose some of his grandfather's blunt at the tables. Or better yet, he might win. The money would come in handy on his trip back to America.

      
Feeling cocky, he leaned back against the musty-smelling squabs and convinced himself that Rachel Fairchild could go to the devil. He did not see the shadowy figure slip onto the boot of the hackney just as it took off.

Chapter Thirteen

      
“So, sir, have I passed your inspection?” Rachel asked Drum as they sipped their libations. She had called for one of her father's best bottles of port, feeling the need for its restorative powers to face Jason's compatriot. Their conversation had been most…enlightening, for want of a better word.

      
Drum could feel her studying him with the same keen intelligence Joss possessed. “You have passed with colors flying, m'dear.”

      
They had taken each other's measure, at first awkwardly, then as both natural wits flared and clashed, laughingly. It was apparent to Rachel that Alvin Francis Edward Drummond wanted to make certain that she was worthy of Jason Beaumont. At his pronouncement, she felt oddly relieved…and yet disturbed. After all, she and Jason were scarcely making lifelong commitments. At least, Jason was not. Rachel knew that if she succeeded in seducing her husband on their wedding night, there would be a lifelong commitment on her part, especially if she became pregnant.

      
Drum interrupted her troubling ruminations. “In spite of superficial differences, you and my friend Jocelyn Blackthorne have much in common…including a well-concealed tendresse for your roguish males.”

      
Rachel almost choked on her port. “As you already know, our marriage will be scarce a day's duration.”

      
"Time enough," Drum replied dryly.

      
Rachel knew her cheeks had heated and cursed Jason Beaumont for causing her to react in such a missish fashion.
Drummond cannot know what I plan…can he?
      
The deadly duelist had not been what she expected. He was a dandy, yes, even a bit misogynistic as were many of his ilk, but he was fiercely loyal to his friends and altogether too shrewd. She met his level gaze without flinching. How much could she tell Drummond? How much had Jason already told him?

      
Her swift calculations were interrupted by the sound of distressed voices coming from the foyer. Excusing herself, she opened the door to see what the commotion was about. Drum was immediately behind her, and they both recognized Ames, one of the Cargrave footmen, as he argued with the viscount's butler.

      
“I say, Ames, why are you raising a breeze?” Drum asked, crossing the floor with a grim expression on his face. He knew this had something to do with Jason.

      
“ ‘Is lordship, sir, the earl, 'e went out, to Brook's, but then 'e give Jemmy 'n Seth the slip. Took a 'ackney from the side door.”

      
Drum cursed, then started to apologize to Rachel, who brushed such niceties aside and asked the footman, “Do you have any idea where he went?”

      
The jarvey wot Jemmy talked to, 'e said 'e took 'im to the wharves.”

      
Now Rachel muttered a most unladylike oath. “Does the fool Yankee have a wish to die!”

      
“I shall find him, never fear, Miss Fairchild,” Drum reassured her, although he felt not half so certain as he let on. Just as he turned to go, he felt her hand on his arm.

      
“I’m coming with you. Only wait a moment while I fetch my pistols.”

      
He stood in amazement as she raised her skirts and sprinted up the stairs with unseemly haste. He was beginning to really like the gel.

      
Within a quarter hour they were in a hired hackney speeding pell-mell to the rough district lining the Thames. Filled with warehouses and taverns, the area catered to the seamen whose ships lay bobbing on the river. Rachel had donned an old pair of breeches and a man's shirt several sizes too large for her, much to Drum's stupefaction. She carried a brace of Clark pistols tucked in a sash at her waist, and her hair was concealed beneath a battered old felt hat.

      
As they alighted from the coach at the first grog shop they encountered, she knelt quickly and smeared a bit of filth from the ground over her face. “It may help if I don't look too clean,” she muttered.

      
He nodded in approval, thankful the night was dark, the taverns poorly lit and most of the denizens of the streets well into their cups. In the light of day, no sober man would ever believe she was a boy. But he prayed no one would realize her disguise at night. “Let me do the talking,” he said as they entered the Purple Parrot.

      
After the fifth unsuccessful inquiry in a vile-smelling hellhole no self-respecting tar would even consider, their mood was grim. “Do you suppose he's lying in some back alley injured or…?” She could not bring herself to say “dead.”

      
“Tis possible, but Jason has always possessed the devil's own luck. Those demmed Yankee Doodles usually seem to,” he replied, praying it would be true this time.

      
“Yes, and he's used up three lifetimes of it already, Yankee or no,” she said, biting her lip in anger. How dare he risk his life on some stupid drunken lark? Drum had explained during their coach ride how he'd left Jason in an advanced state of inebriation earlier that evening, certain the earl would be safely carried up to bed.

      
Don’t you dare die on me, you great lobcock!
What would she do if he were lying in a gutter or alley with life ebbing from his body? Why had he done such a buffle-headed thing after someone had made repeated attempts to kill him? Was the idea of going through with their marriage so repugnant that he would rather die in some sewer than stand before a priest and take her to wife? Rachel had never been so frightened in her life—at least, not since she'd thought he was going to die of that overdose of foxglove.

      
They trudged through thick fog toward the next grog shop, much dispirited yet still determined.

* * * *

      
Jason was just sober enough to realize that he was in trouble. He stood in the corner of the dimly lit tavern with only a table separating him from three menacing strangers. The stench of stale grease and cheap gin melded with the salty smell of rotted wood from the wharves. Torches hung from the walls, and cheap tallow lamps provided the only illumination, casting everything in flickering shadow as the trio advanced on him.

      
A knife gleamed in the ringleader's hand. He was flanked by two burly tars, obviously recruited on the wharves. One, whose neck bore the suspicious scars of a hangman's rope, carried a heavy cudgel, and the other, a behemoth with his right eye gouged out, clenched his enormous fists, formidable weapons indeed.

      
That last half-pint of ale had definitely been a mistake. Jason shook his head to clear it, wishing he had more than the small screw pistol concealed in his jacket. Damn it to hell, he had not even brought his boot knife. Perhaps he could take the one from the ringleader, but first he had to even the odds a bit. One shot, and he had best make it count. He decided to use it on the fellow with the cudgel. Withdrawing the gun, he pointed it at the ringleader, a small weasely cutpurse with rotted teeth and stringy yellow hair.

      
“I would recommend you turn and head for that door,” Jason said in a clear voice that carried over the raucous noise of drunken patrons crowded around the tables in the smoky room.

      
“Then I wouldn't get paid, yer lordship,” the man said with a mocking grin, revealing diseased gums in addition to his rotted teeth. He made a hand motion to the fellow with the cudgel, and the man began moving to his left around the table while his huge companion with the missing eye moved right.

      
Jason held the weapon on the ringleader. “You'll be the first to die,” he said.

      
The man appeared undaunted, holding his knife as he watched the barrel of Jason's pistol. He was small and no doubt agile as a cat. Without giving any warning, Beaumont turned and fired at the rope-scarred assassin just as he raised his cudgel. The crowded room erupted with curses and screams as drunken men and their whores scrambled out of the way.

      
At such close range, the small pistol's bullet struck with enough force to knock the assassin backward. As he crumpled to the filthy floor, his weapon clattered from his hand. Jason leaped over him in an attempt to get away from the giant's fists, but the ringleader was on him from the opposite side, knife flashing.