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The Captain Claims His Lady
ANNIE BURROWS
Enticed by the mysterious stranger…But can this wallflower trust in their attraction?In this Brides for Bachelors story, shy Lizzie Hutton knows her height and clumsiness alone make her a debutante to avoid. Until she meets tall, strong and striking Captain Harry Bretherton, who takes a surprising interest in her! Their intense chemistry makes him hard to resist—if only it weren’t for the secrecy around his past…


A mysterious stranger...
Can she trust in their attraction?
In this Brides for Bachelors story, shy Lizzie Hutton knows her height and clumsiness alone make her a debutante to avoid. Until she meets tall, strong and striking Captain Harry Bretherton, who takes a surprising interest in her! Their intense chemistry makes him hard to resist—if only it weren’t for the secrecy around his past...
Brides for Bachelors miniseries
Book 1—The Major Meets His Match
Book 2—The Marquess Tames His Bride
Book 3—The Captain Claims His Lady
“Every book by Annie Burrows is a great read... The Marquess Tames His Bride has strong characters, a fast-moving plot, a devious mystery and a touch of scandal. Readers will be captivated.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Marquess Tames His Bride
“Burrows is a master at Regency romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on In Bed with the Duke
ANNIE BURROWS has been writing Regency romances for Mills & Boon since 2007. Her books have charmed readers worldwide, having been translated into nineteen different languages, and some have gone on to win the coveted Reviewers’ Choice Award from CataRomance. For more information, or to contact the author, please visit annie-burrows.co.uk (http://www.annie-burrows.co.uk), or you can find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/annieburrowsuk (https://www.facebook.com/AnnieBurrowsUK/).
Also by Annie Burrows (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Lord Havelock’s List
A Mistress for Major Bartlett
The Captain’s Christmas Bride
In Bed with the Duke
Once Upon a Regency Christmas
The Debutante’s Daring Proposal
Brides for Bachelors miniseries
The Major Meets His Match
The Marquess Tames His Bride
The Captain Claims His Lady
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Captain Claims His Lady
Annie Burrows


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07392-9
THE CAPTAIN CLAIMS HIS LADY
© 2018 Annie Burrows
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
New Year, New Life—welcome to the world, Alfie!
Contents
Cover (#uccfa88b1-7ed1-5835-b98f-b407d6a75592)
Back Cover Text (#ude7ddd73-a9ce-5633-b701-b950786d3b4d)
About the Author (#u76ce97a0-221d-5f5d-8a1c-0a7816caf40f)
Booklist (#uefdd4187-f0e4-5378-881e-4ea5ee51567b)
Title Page (#u8f2ceaa9-c4f6-5fdb-8c22-060de2db14cb)
Copyright (#u0df3cc5a-339d-57bd-bd24-6bb650a13203)
Dedication (#u6bba4a4a-eb7c-5b3b-9be5-54f506edfeff)
Chapter One (#ud8792431-083d-5596-9399-072bd5464b63)
Chapter Two (#u0ce51d64-adb7-5285-8605-1df60e905ce4)
Chapter Three (#u562574ea-f706-5b64-9b35-9dbac8087cd4)
Chapter Four (#u82c08a06-4035-5a84-b215-75be3061d7dd)
Chapter Five (#ua114abfc-a51a-5d6f-afbb-835c0b64738a)
Chapter Six (#u0ed4fb01-f72d-5b92-af68-cfea53a599a9)
Chapter Seven (#ue1c2754b-de92-558f-9409-67571c1aea8e)
Chapter Eight (#u37154c34-26dc-5188-ac45-ec7d49c273e0)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Captain Harry Bretherton ducked his head as he entered the waterfront tavern and ran his eyes swiftly over the occupants of the low-ceilinged, smoky taproom. He hoped that none of his former crew members were drinking here on this dank October night. For the meeting being held in the back room was supposed to be a secret.
Grinding his teeth, he strode through the room that swarmed with dockers and sailors, wondering what on earth the Marquess of Rawcliffe had been thinking, arranging to hold his meeting here, of all places. He certainly hadn’t been living up to his nickname of Zeus, the all-knowing, not by a long chalk.
He’d even picked the most memorable of his footmen to stand guard at the door to the back room. Though Kendall was wearing a drab coat and slouch hat, he still managed to look every inch the footman to a marquess.
Harry looked the man straight in the eye as he drew near, wishing he knew exactly what orders Zeus had given him. If it came to a fight, he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to get past Kendall. The footman was over six feet tall and extremely muscular, as well as being utterly loyal to his employer. And it had been a long time since Harry had been in his best form.
He’d just have to hope he could bluff his way past.
‘Good evening, Kendall,’ he said, in what he hoped looked like a confident manner.
‘Wasn’t expecting you here tonight, sir.’
No. He wouldn’t. Zeus had arranged the whole affair with Ulysses without consulting him, let alone inviting him to take part. If he hadn’t overheard a couple of conversations between Lady Rawcliffe and Lady Becconsall, he might never have discovered what their husbands had been planning.
Behind his back.
‘Only had orders to let three naval officers in, sir,’ Kendall explained, a touch defensively. Harry drew himself up to his full height and lifted his chin slightly, utilising the single inch he had over Kendall to its full effect. There weren’t many men the footman had to, literally, look up at.
‘Three other officers, besides myself,’ Harry improvised quickly, ‘I dare say that was what His Lordship meant.’
‘Oh, I see, sir.’ Kendall looked relieved. But then he wouldn’t have wanted to test his strength against a man who’d been a guest in his employer’s home, any more than Harry had wished to start a struggle that would probably have escalated into a full-scale brawl within seconds. He might be an officer, but he was navy. And Kendall clearly wasn’t. The man had never looked more like a footman than when he opened the door to let Harry past.
Having successfully cleared the first hurdle, Harry stepped into the back room.
The four men who were seated round the sticky, blackened table went quiet. Zeus, who was at the head, made his feelings about Harry’s presence known by narrowing his eyes and thinning his lips.
By way of reply, Harry looked at each of the other men seated at the table in turn, before training his eyes on Zeus and raising his eyebrows.
These were the men Rawcliffe deemed acceptable to carry out the investigation into the murder of their former schoolfriend? A drunkard, a bully and an inveterate gambler? Personally, Harry wouldn’t trust any of them any further than he could throw them. Which wouldn’t be all that far, these days.
Rawcliffe met his expression of disbelief with one of bland defiance. Their staring match might have gone on indefinitely, had not Captain Hambleton drained his tankard, slammed it down on the table and belched.
At which point, Rawcliffe wrenched his gaze away from Harry and shot Captain Hambleton an expression of disdain so cold it practically sent a sheet of frost across the tabletop.
Captain Hambleton met that icy gaze with the kind of aplomb that came naturally to a man who’d spent years honing it under fire. ‘Are you going to carry on informing us about the service you wish one of us to perform on your behalf, my lord, or are we waiting on anyone else?’
Harry made the most of the opportunity Captain Hambleton had unwittingly provided, to pull up a chair, sit down on it and fold his arms across his chest.
‘I may as well proceed,’ said Rawcliffe, with resignation, having looked at each of the men now sitting round his table with varying degrees of repugnance. ‘You already know that the service I require from whichever of you I choose is not for the faint-hearted, or squeamish. I made that perfectly clear when I approached each one of you. The task will necessitate acting in a way that many...’ he turned briefly in Harry’s direction, his eyelids lowering fractionally ‘...would consider dishonourable. If that perturbs any of you, then I urge you to leave now, before I make my final selection.’
Nobody moved. But then none of the other men had all that many scruples. Lieutenant Nateby was a brute, renowned for flogging men under his command on the flimsiest pretext. Lieutenant Thurnham was so deep under the hatches, because of his addiction to gambling, that he was willing to do just about anything to stay out of debtor’s prison. And as for Captain Hambleton, Harry rather thought his conscience had long since been pickled in alcohol.
‘Just how do you plan on making your final selection,’ Harry challenged him, ‘from this pool of...talent?’ He could not keep the scorn from his voice. Or the anger. Rawcliffe should never have brought strangers into this. Especially not men like these.
‘How about drawing straws?’ sneered Captain Hambleton.
‘Yes,’ said Lieutenant Thurnham eagerly. ‘Place it in the hands of fate.’
‘Are you sure you only want one man for your...task?’ Lieutenant Nateby said, twirling his brandy glass round and round. ‘If it is as difficult and dangerous as you were suggesting before Captain Bretherton joined us,’ he said, darting a rather sardonic smile at Harry, ‘then it might be easier to accomplish if two of us joined forces.’
‘No,’ said Lieutenant Thurnham. ‘That would mean splitting the fee. Unless you would pay each of us the same amount you mentioned?’
‘This is a job for one man, working alone,’ said Rawcliffe repressively.
‘Oh, well then,’ said Lieutenant Thurnham with a shrug, ‘let us draw straws. Save you the pain of making the decision about which one of us to pick.’
Rawcliffe already knew which one of them he should pick. Dammit, Archie had been one of his oldest friends. If anyone had the right to hunt down his murderer and bring him to justice, it was he. Rawcliffe and Becconsall had no business hiring men to do the job. Not when they knew he, Harry, would have done it for nothing.
‘A sensible solution,’ said Rawcliffe, infuriating him still further. ‘Kendall!’
His footman poked his head round the door. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Procure four straws. Three cut short and one left long. Then come back and present them to these four gentlemen one at a time, in the prescribed manner.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Kendall, leaving at once.
Harry clenched his fists on his lap. All five men at the table sat in silence, broken only by the grating noise of Captain Hambleton dragging the ale jug across the table, then refilling his tankard.
Good god, did Rawcliffe and Becconsall really consider such a fellow preferable to him? To bring their friend’s murderer to justice? True, Harry had felt, and looked, a mere shadow of his former self when he’d first returned to England. And, admittedly, he’d been drinking too much. But even foxed, and at half-strength, surely he was more suitable, not to say reliable, than any of these three?
Kendall returned after only a brief interval. Though heaven alone knew where the fellow could have found any straw in this neck of the woods. He made as if to hand the bunch of straws over to his master, but Rawcliffe held up his hand.
‘No, it is better if you present them to the candidates for the post. Less chance of anyone accusing me of cutting a sham, should they be disappointed.’
‘Seems fair,’ said Thurnham, holding out his hand.
‘Hold hard,’ said Captain Hambleton. ‘We should do this according to rank.’
Kendall raised his brows in a manner that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a drawing room. ‘We will do this,’ he said repressively, ‘according to who’s nearest the door. And that’s this fellow.’ He extended his fist in the direction of Lieutenant Nateby, who gave his senior officer an insolent grin before plucking out one straw.
It was hard to tell whether it was short or long compared to those still clenched in Kendall’s fist. The only thing anyone could tell for certain, when Nateby held it aloft, was that it was about four inches long.
‘Have I won?’
If he had, then why was Kendall offering the remaining straws to Lieutenant Thurnham? The straw he drew was of the same length as Nateby’s. Which meant that Kendall must be still holding a much longer one.
Kendall held out his fist to Harry. ‘Your turn, Captain,’ he said.
Harry studied both remaining straws carefully, his heart pounding sickeningly. He had to pull out the long straw, he just had to. He’d been robbed of too much, these past few years. His command, his liberty, his health, his self-respect and, finally, his timid, yet loyal, friend Archie. He couldn’t lose the right to avenge him, too. It would be...well, the last straw.
He closed his eyes, briefly, took a deep breath and laid hold of one of the two remaining straws clutched in Kendall’s fist. And tugged at it. And kept on tugging as, slowly, the length of it kept on emerging.
He breathed again. He’d got the long straw. And the job.
Kendall ushered the other three men out of the room, amidst much grumbling and cursing. Leaving him alone at the table with the Marquis of Rawcliffe.
A man who claimed to be his friend.
‘I can’t believe,’ Harry growled, ‘that you could even consider hiring anyone else. I was the obvious candidate all along.’
Rawcliffe’s thin mouth clenched into a hard line. ‘No, you were not. I thought you heard me explaining that this task will entail acting in a dishonourable fashion. And you are not a dishonourable man.’
‘You have no idea what kind of man I am nowadays.’
‘We didn’t give you the nickname of Atlas for nothing. You—’
‘You see? You are basing your judgement on the boy you used to know at school. You have no idea how much I may have changed since then. And don’t bring up the letters I wrote bragging about my so-called heroic exploits. Most of them were a pack of lies.’
‘You stayed with me for weeks this spring. Until I married Clare—’
‘And you didn’t notice how much brandy I got through? Or how keen I was to sponge off you? Are those the actions of...?’ He stopped and ran his trembling fingers through his hair, slightly stunned by the fact that he was deliberately trying to persuade a man he was dishonourable, as though it was an asset, when, ever since his release from his French captors, he’d been wallowing in the certainty he was no longer of any use to anyone.
‘You ceased sponging off me, as you like to put it, the moment you knew I was to marry. I know that since then you have been living in extremely reduced circumstances, quite unnecessarily, I might add—’
There he went again—trying to attribute noble motives to account for his actions. When the truth was that since their marriages, both Rawcliffe and Becconsall had been so nauseatingly happy Harry could hardly stand being anywhere near either of them. Or their frilly little wives.
‘Look, Rawcliffe, while you’ve been living in idleness for the last dozen years, I have been sailing all over the world fighting England’s enemies. I’ve employed whatever means necessary to destroy them. Whatever means. There isn’t a dirty trick I haven’t resorted to, if it has meant preserving the lives of my men, or slaughtering our foes. Didn’t you think I’d be prepared to go to the same lengths, to bring Archie’s murderer to justice?’
‘To be frank, no, we didn’t. You didn’t seem to care about anything much, beyond getting to the bottom of the next bottle.’
That took the wind out of Harry’s sails. Even though the jibe had been well deserved.
‘Look,’ said Harry, ‘when you and Ulysses started getting all worked up over the disappearance of some jewels, I admit, I couldn’t get the slightest bit interested.’ What did he care about the baubles that hung round the necks of fat, old, rich women, when out there, on the high seas, men who deserved so much better were daily being ground to pulp by cannon or shredded by flying splinters? Especially when he knew that those same pampered matrons would turn their noses up at the odour those men produced, due to a combination of their hard work and lack of sanitary conveniences? ‘And I could see that Ulysses was just looking for an excuse to impress Lady Harriet, anyway. And that when you went off on that search for the thief, it was a way to relieve the tedium of your existence. In the same way, when Archie went down to Dorset to visit that old relative of his, who seemed to be implicated in some way, I just thought it would do him good to stop hanging on your coat-tails and prove himself.’
Now it was Rawcliffe’s turn to flinch. At least, he began to tap his forefinger on the stem of his wineglass, which was the nearest he ever got to displaying agitation.
‘But somebody killed him,’ Harry continued. ‘That changes everything.’
‘Not quite everything. To be frank, neither of us think that you have the stomach to employ the stratagem which Ulysses and I have deemed necessary.’
‘Haven’t the stomach for it?’ That was one thing about himself he’d never doubted. He might have done a lot of foolish things, but nobody could deny he’d fought like a tiger to try and mitigate the results of his mistakes. ‘I am no coward.’
‘It isn’t a question of cowardice. And don’t repeat your excuse about me not knowing you any more. You have been back in England for several months, during which time I have had ample opportunity to discover what kind of man you have grown to be. You were the only one of us, remember, who made any attempt to defend poor Lady Harriet, when we found her in the park, alone, at dawn. The only one to treat her with respect.’
‘Well, that’s different. A female...alone...’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Rawcliffe with a touch of impatience. ‘The task of bringing Archie’s murderer to justice is going to involve deceiving a female. A gently born female. It is at the very heart of the plan Ulysses came up with. And unless I’m very much mistaken, seducing a gullible virgin is not something you would be comfortable doing.’
‘Seducing a...?’ He shook his head. Then looked at the straw clutched in his fingers. ‘It’s too late now. It appears to be my fate.’ And anyway, could anything he did make him despise himself more than he already did?
‘Damn fate!’ Rawcliffe slapped his open palm on the table, in a display of emotion that was so uncharacteristic it made Harry jump. ‘I don’t have so many friends I can afford to lose another one.’
Just like that, Harry understood why Rawcliffe had held this meeting in secret. Had made plans with Becconsall behind his back, too. People might assume Rawcliffe was cold-blooded and unfeeling, but he wasn’t. It was all a façade. Behind it beat the heart of a man who detested injustice. He hadn’t changed all that much since he’d been a boy at Eton, either. Not deep down, where it counted. At Eton, they’d given Rawcliffe the nickname of Zeus, not simply because he out ranked them all, but because he really was a natural leader. Just as they’d nicknamed him Atlas, because not only was he bigger and stronger than anyone else in the school, but he’d been willing to take on the burdens of those who needed his protection. And Becconsall, the third of their band of brothers, had been Ulysses. So named for his cunning and intelligence.
He’d never forged friendships like the ones he’d formed at that school, even though he’d been there for such a comparatively short time.
‘Seducing a gullible virgin doesn’t sound all that dangerous.’
‘Going to visit an elderly relative didn’t sound all that dangerous when I let Archie go and do so, either, did it? The point is, there is somebody down there in Dorset who is cunning enough to plan the theft of jewels in such a way that it took years, in some cases, for the theft to even be discovered. And with the connections that enabled him to introduce jewel thieves into the houses of members of the ton, in the guise of ladies’ maids. That person is also ruthless enough to commit murder in order to keep his crimes from being discovered. So we need someone as cunning, and as ruthless, to withstand him.’
‘I have already declared myself willing to do whatever it might take. Even to the point of seduction. Though to be frank, whatever female you have selected for this process would fare better with me than with the likes of Thurnham or Nateby. I, at least, won’t debauch her.’
Rawcliffe looked at him for a second or two, his face blank, though Harry knew it was a mask he adopted to conceal what he was thinking.
‘And Archie,’ Harry continued, ‘was not only a civilian, but a scientist. He had no idea how to spot a liar, or a rogue. Whereas I am not only an experienced fighting man, but have lived in close quarters with some of the most despicable criminals on earth. Men who chose to serve in the navy rather than go to the gallows.’
‘There was a good reason,’ said Rawcliffe thoughtfully, ‘why I sought candidates for the job amongst other naval men. The ability to handle a boat might come in handy.’
Harry’s heart picked up speed. ‘There you are, you see? And you can trust me, which you could not do with the others. They would not have had the zeal I can bring to the table.’
‘You are still not fit for active duty, though, are you? If it comes to a fight...’
‘I am much stronger than I was. Getting stronger every day. And anyway, isn’t it better that our enemy underestimates me?’
Rawcliffe’s cool grey eyes narrowed. ‘Actually, in one way,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘your physical condition is an advantage. It will provide the perfect cover for you to be in Bath. Where the young lady who is pivotal to the investigation is currently staying.’
Harry leaned back in his chair. The job was his.
‘Why don’t you just tell me what dastardly plan you and Ulysses have cooked up between you? And then let me decide if I’m the man to carry it out.’
Or not.
Chapter Two (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Lizzie took the cup of water from the hand of the footman who had just drawn it from the pump and turned hastily. The rooms were particularly crowded this morning and she’d been queuing for what felt like an eternity. Grandfather would certainly think so. Waiting in his chair by the fireplace, he would be tapping his cane on the floor by now, his temper rising with each second that passed.
Though it wasn’t even as if he’d wish to leave once she’d brought him his daily dose of the water which was supposed to be the cure for his gout, since so many of his cronies were here for the season. He’d be gossiping for ages long after he’d downed his medicinal cup of water, while she would have to stand behind his chair, still as a statue lest he accuse her of fidgeting.
Nevertheless, she’d annoy him less if she made it look as if she’d completed this errand as quickly as she could.
As she stepped back to make her way out of the throng pressing round the pump, her shoulder caught on something. Something that felt rather like a brick wall. And which said, ‘Oof!’, just before she heard the distinctive sound of a cup clattering to the floor.
‘Oh, no...oh, dear,’ she said, turning to make her apologies to whoever it was she’d just stumbled into. And finding herself on a level with a very determined chin. Above that was a full-lipped mouth and above that was a rather blunt nose, sprinkled with freckles. And above that, a pair of the bluest, saddest eyes she’d ever seen.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her cheeks heating, though the Lord alone knew why. She had to apologise so often for blundering into someone or something that she ought to be used to it by now. It was just that this man was so...tall. And so solid. Most people would have staggered back under the force of her weight, applied directly to their midriff. Or even fallen right over. In fact, it was a miracle, given that the place was full of the frail and elderly, that she hadn’t knocked anyone over yet this season.
But this man hadn’t budged as much as an inch.
Which meant they were standing far too close to each other.
She took a hasty half-step back. Immediately his facial features blurred into a pale oval topped by a neat thatch of closely cropped black hair.
‘Your cup...’ she began with mortification. It would be of no use attempting to pick it up. She had no idea where it had gone and her eyesight was too poor to bother making a search. ‘I shall go and fetch you another...’
As she made to move, something that felt like a wooden vice gripped her by the elbow.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ said the large man, in a firm voice. ‘I mean, that is to say,’ he said in a much lighter tone, ‘you have no need to fetch me another. No need at all.’
‘But I—’
‘No,’ he said, in that same firm tone. Then he leaned in and murmured, ‘You have just saved me from a terrible fate. Do not, I beg of you, undo your good work now.’
‘A terrible... My good... What?’
‘I know the water is supposed to be good for my health, but...’ He shrugged. With a pair of shoulders the width of a mantelpiece.
‘Oh,’ she said. Or rather, sighed. Yes, the sound that had just come out of her mouth had definitely contained far more sigh than sense.
‘May I,’ said the enormous, solid man, ‘be permitted to know your name? So that I may render due gratitude to my redeemer?’
She wasn’t sure, afterwards, if it was the slightly mocking allusion to scripture, or the jocular tone of his voice, but she suddenly felt as if she was making a bit of a fool of herself, standing so close to a man she didn’t know, and feeling all... Well, she wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Only that she’d never felt anything like it before.
And also, that no matter what he was making her feel, she really ought allow him to keep hold of her elbow in that proprietorial manner.
She lifted her chin.
And promptly thought better of saying anything cutting. He’d been so forgiving of her clumsiness. Shouldn’t she return the favour by forgiving his forwardness?
‘It is...’ No, she couldn’t simply give him her name. That was not at all the proper thing to do. Why, he could be anybody.
‘Miss...?’ he prompted her.
She ought to step away from him. Why couldn’t she? ‘Step,’ she finished. For it would indeed be a misstep to act in such a fast manner.
‘Miss Step?’ His dark brows raised. He shook his head. ‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes, I...’ She glanced in the direction of the fireplace and her grandfather’s chair. ‘In fact, I ought to be...’
‘Because you have the distinct look of the Cheevers family.’
‘Cheevers?’
‘Yes, I have the distinct impression you are, decidedly, Miss Cheevers.’
He ran the two words together so that it sounded as though he’d said mischievous. Her breath caught in her throat. Good heavens, was he...teasing her? Flirting with her? No, no, he couldn’t possibly be doing that. He’d looked sensible, when she’d been close enough to make out the expression on his face.
‘I am not being mischievous,’ she retorted. And then, heaven alone knew why, she succumbed to the temptation to add, ‘You are clearly Miss Taken.’
He laughed. The sound erupted from his mouth as though it had taken him completely by surprise.
‘No, no, I am no sort of Miss at all. Though clearly you believe I have committed a Miss Demeanour, by being so bold as to ask for your true name.’
‘It was a piece of rank Miss Conduct.’
‘No, not so bad as that. It was, perhaps, a touch Miss Guided.’
‘Which was why I felt obliged to use a Miss Nomer.’
‘I understand completely. But believe me, by attempting to be Miss Terious, you have only made me more determined to uncover your true identity.’
Somebody nearby cleared their throat. And she realised that the pair of them were creating a rather substantial obstacle to people trying to reach, or move away from, the pump.
The tall, blue-eyed man bowed from the waist. ‘Forgive me, Miss Teak, but I really should be moving along.’
‘Oh,’ was all she could think of say, as her spirits plummeted. Of course, a man like that was not going to stand around playing word games with the likes of her for any length of time. She might have amused him, for a moment or two. But he had eyes in his head. She was tall, she was ungainly and she had no dress sense. She didn’t think her face was actually ugly and her hair was the kind of silver blonde that men might go into raptures over, if it sprouted from the head of a smaller, dainty woman.
But she wasn’t. And it didn’t.
By the time she’d thought all those things, he’d vanished into the throng. Though she would have thought a man like him would be visible above the general run of people, being a full head taller than she was.
Her wretched eyesight. If only Grandfather would permit her to wear spectacles when she went out. But Grandfather didn’t hold with them. And she didn’t have the heart to defy him. He’d been generous enough to her over the years. Indeed, if it wasn’t for him...
She sighed, and, her cup of supposedly health-giving water held firmly in her hand, made her way back to the spot where she’d left Grandfather, holding court over a group of Bath widows and old cronies.
‘Who were you talking to, miss?’ Grandfather scowled at her over the rim of his cup as she handed it to him.
‘I have no idea,’ she admitted wistfully. ‘He didn’t give me his name.’
‘I should think not. In my day a gentleman waited to be introduced before speaking to a lady.’
‘Well, I did blunder into him and knock his cup of water out of his hand.’
‘Oh. I see. Like that, was it?’ And with that, he turned back to Mrs Hutchens and took up from where they’d left off gossiping, having clearly dismissed the entire incident.
Which was a bit depressing, actually. For a minute or two, Lizzie toyed with the idea of saying that, no, it wasn’t like that. That the tall, blue-eyed man had flirted with her outrageously. Showered her with compliments, then asked her to elope with him.
But saying any such thing would only have earned her a sharp reprimand. Grandfather knew she wasn’t the kind of girl that gentlemen ever flirted with. The only thing that might tempt a man to look beyond her gargantuan build, and her clumsiness, was an enormous dowry.
And Lizzie didn’t have a penny to her name.
Still, there was nothing to stop her from reliving the encounter in her mind. And imagining the expressions that might have been flitting across his face as they were bantering with each other. Why shouldn’t he have looked at her with admiration? Why couldn’t her dazzling wit have managed to chase the shadows from his eyes and make them twinkle with laughter?
Grandfather rudely interrupted her daydream by poking her in the leg with his cane.
‘Come on, girl, stop wool-gathering!’
It was time to leave.
‘Yes, Grandfather,’ she said meekly. But instead of trailing behind him, shoulders drooping at the prospect of facing the next stage in the daily round of Bath life, Lizzie imagined she was balancing a pile of books on her head. Because ladies were supposed to glide, gracefully, wherever they went.
And for once, Lizzie could see the point of trying to do so.
Because, who knew who might be watching her?
Chapter Three (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
‘And of course,’ said Lady Mainwaring, ‘I told her...’
Lizzie kept her head tilted to one side, her eyes fixed in the general direction of Bath’s most garrulous widow, while her mind wandered freely. It was one of the benefits of having such poor eyesight. People didn’t expect her to look as though she was focusing intently on them when they cornered her and tried to interest her in the latest gossip.
She did make sure she smiled at Lady Mainwaring though, because the plump little woman was one of the least terrifying of the Bath set. Lizzie was certain that she gossiped about her the moment they parted company, but she never actually said anything unkind to her face, the way so many of the other dowagers did. Lady Mainwaring had never asked her why she didn’t smarten herself up, for example, or recommended modistes who would know how to counteract her faults, or sigh and pretend to sympathise with the difficulty of finding eligible young men in Bath these days. She was too keen on keeping Lizzie up to date with what everyone else in Bath was doing.
‘Excuse me,’ said the Master of Ceremonies, bowing to both ladies and making Lizzie jump. She hadn’t noticed him approaching, so intent had she been on convincing Lady Mainwaring she was listening to her account of her latest altercation with one of the other dowagers.
‘I have here a gentleman I would wish to recommend as a dancing partner, for you, Miss Hutton.’
‘For me?’ Lizzie couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told her she’d just won the lottery. Especially since she’d never purchased a ticket.
‘Permit me to introduce Captain Bretherton, of His Majesty’s navy,’ said the Master of Ceremonies, smoothly ignoring Lizzie’s less-than-gracious reaction, and waving to someone who, presumably from the direction of the waving, was standing just behind him.
‘Captain Bretherton?’ Of the navy? She peered beyond Mr King’s shoulder and saw an immense figure loom up out of the golden candlelit fog. And her heart skipped a beat. It was the man from the Pump Room that morning. It had to be. For there surely couldn’t be two such tall, broad men in Bath at present.
‘Miss Hutton,’ said a voice she recognised at once. A voice that sent strange feelings rippling through her whole body. Making her feel a bit like a pointer quivering in the presence of game. ‘I am charmed to make your acquaintance.’
‘Eep!’ That was the noise which escaped Lady Mainwaring’s mouth as Captain Bretherton stepped closer and bowed over her hand. Which also, coincidentally, expressed exactly what Lizzie was thinking.
‘Captain Bretherton,’ said Lizzie, dropping into a curtsy. Causing Lady Mainwaring to stagger a little as Lizzie’s elbow caught her in the midriff.
She really ought to practise curtsying more often. She had never mastered the art of controlling her elbows. It was hard enough to get her knees to dip to the approved level, while keeping her balance. Spreading her elbows wide helped her not to stagger in the rising portion of the curtsy, she’d discovered. And Lady Buntingford, who’d been the one attempting to teach her all that a lady needed to know, had said that she supposed that at least it meant she could perform the whole manoeuvre relatively smoothly, even if nobody and nothing within range of them was likely to emerge unscathed.
‘Allow me to escort you to the ballroom,’ said Captain Bretherton, as a large, gloved hand swam into view.
She took it, grateful that she couldn’t see the expression on his face. The poor man must be regretting having asked her to dance, now that he’d seen how clumsy she was.
‘You are very brave,’ came tumbling out of her mouth. And then she blushed. That was just the sort of thing she ought not to tell a man, just before he danced with her.
But then, what did it matter, really? Once he’d spent half an hour stepping over the bodies she’d no doubt strew across the dance floor, he would never come anywhere near her again.
Oh, dear. It had been so pleasant daydreaming about her encounter with him this morning. She’d actually been witty for a few moments. But now she had a horrid feeling that she was only ever going to be able to cringe when she looked back on what was likely to happen during the course of the next half-hour.
She felt his arm, upon which she’d rested her hand in the requisite manner, stiffen.
‘Brave? What do you mean?’
‘To ask me to dance,’ she confessed miserably.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But it was the only way I could think of to get an introduction. Wondering what your name could really be has been tormenting me all day.’
‘Oh, well, if that is all, we don’t need to go through with it. We could just go to the tea room...’
‘Tea won’t be served for another hour at least,’ he said swiftly. ‘And...er...’
‘You have no taste for cards? Neither do I. In fact, Grandfather won’t even buy me a subscription for the card room. Says it is a waste of money.’
‘Playing cards at all is a waste of money,’ he said grimly.
She shot him a startled look. And, since the crowded room obliged them to walk very close together, she could see the clenched plane of his jaw quite distinctly.
‘Besides, I would much rather dance with you.’
‘Really? But I thought...’
‘Thought what?’
‘Well, I was just going to say that, this morning, I thought you looked quite sensible.’
A bark of laughter escaped his lips. But then he turned his head and looked down at her.
‘Sensible and brave. My, my. Two compliments in such rapid succession. Miss Hutton, you will turn my head.’
‘No, I didn’t mean, that is...’ She felt her cheeks heating as her thoughts, and her tongue, became hopelessly tangled. How she wished she had more experience of talking to men. Well, single men, who’d asked her to dance with them, that was. Then she might not be making quite such a fool of herself with this one.
‘I will make a confession,’ he said, leaning close to her ear so that his voice rippled all the way down her spine in a caressing manner.
‘Will you?’ She lost her ability to breathe properly. It felt as if her lungs were as tangled as her thoughts.
‘When I looked in upon the ballroom, earlier, and saw how few people were actually dancing, and how many were watching, my nerve almost failed.’
‘Well, it is just that there are not that many people here who are fit enough to dance. But they do enjoy watching others. And then...’
‘Giving them marks out of ten, I dare say,’ he finished for her.
‘Yes, that’s about it. And I’m terribly sorry, but—’
‘Oh, no,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot retreat now. We are almost at the dance floor. Can you imagine what people will say if you turn and run from me?’
‘That you’ve had a narrow escape?’
‘That I’ve had...’ He turned, and took both her hands in his. ‘Miss Hutton, are you trying to warn me that you are not a good dancer?’
She nodded. Then hung her head.
She felt a gloved hand slide under her chin and lift her face. And saw him smiling down at her. Beaming, in fact. As though she’d just told him something wonderful.
‘Then, you are not going to berate me when I tread upon your toes?’
‘I... Is that what your dance partners normally do?’ When he nodded, ruefully, she welled up with indignation. ‘How rude.’
‘I shall remind you that you said that, after you have suffered the same fate.’
‘I suspect that you will be too busy regretting having asked me to dance at all to remember anything I said beforehand.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Because I have no...’ She tried to wave her hands to demonstrate her lack of coordination, only to find them still firmly clasped between his own. ‘And people do try to get out of my way, but...’
‘I can see that this is going to be an interesting experience for both of us,’ he put in.
‘And for the spectators.’ The walls would probably soon be resounding to the screams of pain from the other dancers and the laughter of those watching her mow her way through the others in her set like a scythe through ripened wheat. At least, that was how her very last dance partner had spoken of her performance after he’d returned her to her seat, mopping his brow. It was funny how people assumed, because she couldn’t see very well, that she couldn’t hear, either. They seemed to think they could talk about her freely, and often very rudely, and get away with it.
And because it was easier to pretend she hadn’t heard, than to confront them and make a scene, Lizzie had learned to keep her face frozen into what another local youth had described as being very like that adopted by a cow when chewing the cud.
And what a cud he was.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning and leading her on to the dance floor where she could see the dim outlines of other people forming a set. ‘Let us give them something worth watching.’
Chapter Four (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Harry’s cravat felt too tight. And sweat was trickling down between his shoulder blades, giving him an almost uncontrollable urge to scratch at it. Or tear off his neck cloth.
It was pretty much the way he’d always felt before going into battle. The determination to go through with the grim task in spite of knowing that whatever strategy he followed, there were bound to be injuries. This time, to a young woman who would have no idea she was a deliberate target.
He gritted his teeth. He’d told Rawcliffe he’d do whatever it took. And once he’d learned how pivotal Miss Hutton was to the success of their scheme, he’d assured both him, and later Becconsall, that he was the best man for the job. Rawcliffe had assured him that this part of it would be simple, that Miss Hutton would be so grateful for any attention any eligible young man might give her, she would fall into his hands like a ripe plum. Which might be true, but he would wager that neither Lieutenant Nateby nor Captain Hambleton would be sweating like this if either of them had drawn the long straw. Or be feeling as though, at any minute, one of the assembled Bath gossips would point the finger and expose him as an impostor. Nor did it give him any comfort to reflect that the only one of the candidates Rawcliffe had summoned to that interview who would have been having a harder time, at this precise moment, would have been Lieutenant Thurnham. Because it would only have been due to his struggles to resist the lure of the card room.
Not one of the others would have been wrestling with their conscience. Not one of them would have had any qualms about laying siege to Miss Hutton’s heart, or conquering it, and then, when she’d served her purpose, walking away from her without a backward glance.
He scowled across the ballroom at the few other couples milling about as he gave her arm a squeeze. His conscience with regard to Miss Hutton might be smarting a bit, but he was fully committed to seeing this mission through to the bitter end. Therefore he had to persuade Miss Hutton that he was a genuine suitor. A suitor so smitten that he would not be able to part from her when the time came for her to leave Bath. By then, hopefully, he would have wormed his way into her affections to the extent that she would extend an invitation to spend Christmas with her and her family in Lesser Peeving. From which vantage point he would be able to continue the investigations Archie had been conducting in that area. Investigations which had resulted in his death.
He swallowed as he glanced down at the crown of Lizzie’s head, the droop of her shoulders. He’d felt sorry for her before even meeting her, because of the plan to deceive her into believing she’d captured his heart. But now he had met her...well, she was so utterly defenceless against him that when she had placed her trembling hand upon his sleeve, just now, revealing her dread at the prospect of having so many spectators mocking the way she danced, he experienced a bizarre sensation of wishing he could somehow protect her.
When he was the one she needed protecting from.
He ground his teeth. He’d always hated seeing anyone take advantage of those weaker than themselves. But he hadn’t felt such a strong surge of indignation on anyone’s behalf since the day he’d come across Tom Kellet cowering behind the buttress in the fives court. Back then, he’d been able to wade straight in and dispatch the beefy bullies who’d been taunting him. And assure the lad, who’d later gained the nickname of Archie, that he was no longer alone, that he, Harry, would always stand by him. Back then, his actions had given him a sense of self-worth he’d never known before. He’d discovered that he was not a ‘good-for-nothing’ after all.
Right now, Miss Hutton looked as though she could do with having someone to stand by her, too. Even if it was the very man who was responsible for luring her out on to the dance floor where she was afraid she was about to make a spectacle of herself.
Which didn’t surprise him actually, not when he recalled the way she’d knocked his cup of water from his hand at their first meeting. The way she’d very nearly sent her companion flying when executing the most awkward curtsy he’d ever seen, outside the theatre. It just went to confirm Lady Rawcliffe’s description of her as an awkward giantess. He’d dismissed her evaluation, up ’til then, because Lady Rawcliffe was one of those tiny, dainty, fairy-like females who always got a crick in their necks when attempting to look him in the face. The kind who always made him afraid he’d accidentally crush them if he turned round too quickly without first taking note of exactly where they were standing. But now he saw that Miss Hutton herself believed all those things Lady Rawcliffe had said of her. To the extent that she was discernibly trembling at the prospect of stepping out on to the dance floor, when other females would have been looking on it with anticipation.
Just as he was sweating with his own nerves. Which gave him an uncanny sense of kinship with her. He knew what it felt like to be robbed of the kind of pleasure most people took for granted, right enough. It had happened first in his childhood, when his family had fallen apart. And then when he’d been taken out of school just as he’d begun to find his feet. And again when the French had taken him prisoner. Each time he’d hated that feeling of being weak and helpless in the face of cruel fate and no longer able to partake in the activities others enjoyed almost by right.
She darted him a glance that was half-trepidation, half-despair as they took their places in the set. He heard the murmurs going through the assembled crowd of onlookers. Saw people nudging each other and looking in their direction. And probably speculating on the likely outcome of having two giants attempting to weave in and out of the band of pygmies who formed the rest of their set.
He wanted to tell her she wasn’t going to have to face it alone. That he would protect her from the stares, the gossip, the sniggers. But how could he? It was his fault she was going to have to endure it all.
But one thing he could do. He could show her that though they were not cut from the same cloth as most people, that didn’t mean they had no right to enjoy themselves. For the next half-hour he would do his level best to provide Miss Hutton with the fun that seemed so sadly lacking in her life, from what he’d both learned and observed of her so far.
‘You know,’ he remarked casually, ‘when at sea, it is a general principle that the smaller, nippier craft treat the larger, ocean-going vessels with respect.’
‘Respect?’ She cast a doubtful look round the others who’d come on to the dance floor before them and who could now not retreat without looking craven.
‘Yes. If they don’t want to get broadsided, then they take jolly good care to keep out of the way.’
‘That is a nautical principle, is it?’
‘Yes. An eminently sensible one. And one which ought to hold true on the dance floor.’
‘Are you trying to say that if you step on my toes, it will be my own fault?’
Before he could deny he’d meant anything so unchivalrous, the musicians were striking up the opening chords and everyone was curtsying or bowing to the other members of the set.
‘No,’ he just had time to say, ‘I was referring to the others.’
And then they were off.
And he soon discovered that Miss Hutton was nowhere near as bad at dancing as she’d led him to believe. She did appear a bit reserved at first, a little awkward about the way she moved her limbs, but to make up for it, she had a very good ear for music. She stepped out firmly on the beat, never missing a step. Which meant he didn’t have to worry that she might not be in the place he expected her to be at any given moment. True, her steps were a bit longer than those of the other ladies in the set, and most of the men, too, but they matched his. What was more, when he took her hand in the turns, she returned his grip with such strength that he soon lost his usual dread that he might accidentally snap one of her fingers. He could also swing her round without worrying about the risk of whirling her right off her feet and out through one of the windows.
After a while, he noticed that she was starting to look much less nervous. And by the time it was their turn to gallop down the inside of the set, hand in hand, she was actually smiling.
‘You were right,’ she said as they waited for the next couple in the set to gallop down the centre. ‘About the smaller craft giving the larger ones a wide berth.’
‘And they have ample space to do so tonight, since this is the only set in a room designed to hold several, by the looks of it.’
‘Yes, not many people come to Bath for anything other than to play cards and drink the waters, these days. Oh, and gossip. And reminisce about how much more fun it used to be when they were younger.’
They stepped smartly sideways as the next couple in line reached the head of the set and began their skip down the middle of the room.
‘It must be very dull for you,’ he observed.
She shrugged. Darted him a shy glance. ‘Not tonight.’
And then she bit her lower lip, her face turning red.
His stomach contracted. Though he ought to be pleased at having made such an impression on her in such short order, the truth was he’d forgotten all about Rawcliffe’s scheme, for a while there. He might have asked her to dance in order to further that scheme, but he’d wanted her to enjoy herself because... Well, he’d just wanted her to enjoy herself, that was all.
Now, her blushing response to him reminded him how very vulnerable she was, all over again. The perfect mark for Rawcliffe’s scheme.
He ground his teeth. If there was any other way...
But, according to both Rawcliffe and Becconsall, when they’d filled him in on the mission, there wasn’t. The village where the man lived, who they suspected of being responsible for Archie’s murder, was impregnable from a full-frontal attack, tucked into an inlet that was backed by sheer cliffs and approachable from the sea only by means of a narrow, rock-strewn channel. They’d never be able to get in openly, and search for the evidence they needed to bring him to justice. Visitors to the surrounding area were watched, too. From what Rawcliffe had been able to discover in the short time he’d stayed at Peacombe, a nearby seaside resort, that had been Archie’s mistake. He’d been too open about what had led him to go to that area. Had spoken to someone who had reported back to someone else, who’d promptly had him killed.
Stealth was the answer. Going in under cover of a lot of smoke. And Miss Hutton was the means of providing it.
‘You may think that these men I was interviewing,’ Rawcliffe had told him, when the others had left the supposedly secret meeting that night, ‘were a set of rogues, but one thing you cannot deny is their appeal to the gentler sex.’ Harry had only had to reflect for a moment or two before agreeing. Especially since he knew a little about each man’s exploits in that area. ‘Moreover,’ Rawcliffe had continued dispassionately, ‘from what Clare has told me, Miss Hutton will jump at the chance for a match that will provide the means to escape her grandfather’s tyranny. Giving her fiancé the perfect opportunity to haunt the place for as long as it takes to find the proof we need to bring Clement Cottam to justice.’
‘Right-hand star,’ shouted the dance caller, jerking him out of his reverie.
Miss Hutton grasped his hand firmly. But the other lady in their foursome kept her own hand timidly under her own partner’s so that the star never fully meshed. Which meant that when they began to circle, he and Miss Hutton, whose steps matched perfectly, were in danger of overtaking the other two. When Miss Hutton made as if she was going to slow down, he gripped her hand tighter and shook his head, reminding her that it was for the others to keep up. And, after one brief moment when he saw panic in the other lady’s eyes, she did indeed speed up, obliging her partner to do the same. In short order, their little legs were positively twinkling as they put on a spurt of speed that left them red-faced and panting by the time the figure ended.
Luckily for all concerned, the orchestra brought the performance to an end soon after. Everyone in the set bowed to everyone else and tottered away from the floor. Leaving Miss Hutton and he standing there alone, as if in possession of the field.
Oh, to the devil with his conscience! And Rawcliffe’s schemes. He seized Miss Hutton’s hands.
‘I say,’ he panted. ‘Would you like to do that again?’
She blinked. ‘You cannot mean that.’
‘I jolly well can. I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a dance more.’
She peered up at him, as though perplexed.
‘But we disrupted the others. We didn’t...keep time.’
‘We kept perfect time. We just kept a bit more of it than the others, that was all.’
She tipped her head to one side, as though assessing his viewpoint. ‘That’s as may be,’ she then said, pensively. ‘But I don’t think anyone else will return to the dance floor while we remain on it.’
He glanced round the other occupants of the ballroom, who were, indeed, looking a bit reluctant to return to the floor while they still stood there. ‘Lightweights,’ he said scornfully. ‘It wasn’t as if I trod upon anyone’s toes. Nor did I knock anyone over.’
‘Have you ever done so? Knocked anyone over, I mean? I know about the toe-crushing.’
‘Not actually.’
‘I have,’ she said dolefully.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Swung him round with a bit too much enthusiasm.’
He couldn’t help grinning at the image she conjured up for him. ‘You can swing me round with as much enthusiasm as you like,’ he assured her. ‘And you will never manage to knock me off my feet.’
She eyed him in an assessing manner.
‘Come on,’ he urged her, ‘let’s dance again. And this time, no holds barred. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, for once, without worrying about what damage we might do.’ Or what the future might bring. ‘And then I shall escort you in for tea.’
‘You...you...’ She gazed at him as though he was some kind of marvel. ‘You are going to set tongues wagging,’ she finished, though he was pretty sure that was not what she’d been going to say.
‘From what I can gather, they wag anyway,’ he said scornfully. And then noted the little furrow between her brows. ‘Does it bother you?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Not tonight. Besides, I won’t hear it, will I, if I am on the dance floor, or supping tea with you.’
But she would have to face it the next day. And the one after that.
Poor Miss Hutton.
Not that he was going to permit sympathy for her to stop him from his pursuit. And conquest.
Too much depended on it.
Chapter Five (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Lizzie had never woken up, while in Bath, with a sense of anticipation. And she’d always regarded their daily attendance at the Pump Room as just a part of the grindingly dull routine she had to weather. But this morning, her heart was beating double time as she helped Grandfather out of his sedan chair.
Would he be there today? Captain Bretherton? He’d come yesterday, to drink the waters. Although she couldn’t think why. He was the strongest man she’d ever met. Which was probably why she’d enjoyed dancing with him so much. For the first time, she hadn’t felt oversized and gangly, and unfeminine. Not at all. She’d felt...
Well, if he was here today, she could ask him what on earth he was doing, drinking the foul waters, when he was so...
She felt a blush coming on and ruthlessly turned her thoughts in another direction. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice how susceptible she was to Captain Bretherton and start quizzing her about him.
And if he was here, she was going to speak to him in a sensible fashion. Not stammer and blush, and sigh. Absolutely not. She’d start, she’d decided earlier—after ransacking her wardrobe for a gown she would actually like him to see her wearing, before realising she didn’t possess one—by asking him why his doctor had sent him to Bath to drink the waters. For there was nothing most invalids enjoyed more than going into great detail about their ailments. While he was describing a set of symptoms that would probably make her shudder, she wouldn’t have to come up with anything witty or interesting by way of response. She wouldn’t have to do anything but listen. And by the time he’d recounted the history of whatever ailment he had, he probably wouldn’t appear so...god-like. Which would be a good thing, because it was blasphemous to think in those terms about a mere mortal.
But how else to account for the fact that she became a different person whenever he drew near? A wittier, more graceful version of herself. Who could actually dance? It was nothing short of miraculous.
Ouch!
She winced at the blow from Grandfather’s walking stick.
‘That’s the third time I’ve asked you! What’s got into you, girl?’
‘Nothing, Grandfather,’ she replied penitently. ‘I was wool-gathering. I do beg your pardon. I—’
‘Never mind excuses. Snap out of it. And go and fetch me my cup of water. It’s what I bring you for, after all. Go on. At the double!’
‘Yes, Grandfather.’ Lizzie made her way across the crowded Pump Room to join the queue at the fountain. If he was here, he would have to come and find her. It wasn’t the done thing for a lady to seek out a gentleman. Even if she could pick him out from the crowd, which she couldn’t.
She fingered her reticule, wishing she had the courage to make use of the one item that would have put her on an even footing with all the other people here. But she hadn’t.
She sighed.
He wouldn’t come to look for her. Even though he’d said he’d enjoyed their time together last night, she mustn’t pin her hopes on him still being in the same frame of mind today. Men with god-like attributes such as he possessed surely did not waste more than one evening upon any one female. Why, he might not even still be in Bath. He—
‘Good morning, Miss Hutton.’
He was here! And bowing to her. And speaking to her. At least, he’d said good morning. Which meant—Oh! She ought to make some kind of reply.
‘Ah. Oh. Um.’ Yes. Very witty. That would really impress him. A wave of embarrassment flooded her, making her cheeks flame.
‘It’s deuced hot in here, isn’t it?’ he said. Oh, how kind of him to come up with a valid reason for her to blush!
‘Don’t know why they need to have a fire blazing,’ he said, ‘with all the crowds jostling to get in.’
‘Grandfather always takes a seat as near to the fire as he can, while I go to fetch his water,’ she managed to say, though her tongue felt a bit too big for her mouth.
‘Rheumaticky, is he?’
Which reminded her, she had meant to quiz him about his own ailments. With the twin aim of getting him to do most of the talking, while toppling him from his pedestal.
‘It’s his broken bones. He had a few injuries during his years of active service. And he claims draughts set them off. Is that why you are here? Were you injured? I mean, that is, you are in the navy, are you not?’
‘I did have my fair share of injuries,’ he replied, as the queue shuffled forward. And fell silent.
‘And is that why you have come to drink the waters?’
The queue shuffled forward again before he had made any reply. Which made her fear he had picked up some nasty disease which he couldn’t mention in female company.
Well! That would make her think less well of him. Sailors were notorious for seeking...comfort...in whichever port they happened to be. She ought not to know about it, but—
‘It is a bit complicated,’ he finally said. ‘I had yellow jack when I was in the tropics, which left me...not in prime twig, shall we say,’ he finished saying on a huff of a laugh. ‘And then I was taken prisoner by the French.’ He plucked at the front of his jacket, making her aware that it hung a bit loose on his big frame. ‘I lost so much weight while enjoying their hospitality that when I finally came back to England my friends said I resembled a scarecrow.’
They reached the head of the queue. The footman handed them each a cup. They stepped aside.
‘I say, Miss Hutton, I don’t suppose you would care to knock this out of my hand again this morning?’
‘It won’t do you any good if you don’t drink it.’
‘I don’t think it will do me any good if I do,’ he said glumly. ‘To be honest, I think I will gain more benefit from sticking to my daily swim in the stuff.’
He swam? Oh, how she wished that Grandfather would grant her permission to do the same. But she wasn’t ill. And so there was no need for him to waste his blunt on any such treatment for her.
And then a horrid thought assailed her. It sounded as though he was explaining why she would not be seeing him again.
‘Are you telling me you will not be attending the Pump Room again?’
‘What? No. It is just...’ He bent his head, as though studying the cup he held in his hand. Then, with one swift movement, he raised it to his mouth and tossed back the entire contents in one go.
Then shuddered. ‘To think people drink this willingly.’ He shook his head.
‘But...you just did.’
‘No. That...’ he grimaced ‘...was my punishment.’
‘For what?’
He turned away from her for a moment, presumably to dispose of his cup. ‘My sins,’ he said, turning back to her, ‘are too numerous to mention. Let us instead talk of you.’
‘Me?’ Her voice came out in a squeak.
‘Yes. I want to know everything,’ he said in a determined voice, ‘there is to know about you.’
‘Well that won’t take very long. I am really very boring.’
‘Not to me, you aren’t. Have you any idea what it was like, to dance with a partner who...matched? Most women make me feel big and lumbering and awkward. But not you.’
‘Oh.’ She felt another blush coming on. And, before she could stop her unruly tongue, she heard herself admitting, ‘It was the same for me, too. That is, most men make me feel big and lumbering and awkward.’
‘Can you wonder, then, that I want to get to know you better?’
‘I... I...’
Her feet, by this time, had carried her back to her grandfather without her even taking note of where she was going. And since he was by her side, he’d fetched up there, too.
‘Who’s this? Eh?’ Grandfather was glaring up at them from under lowered brows.
‘Captain Bretherton,’ said Captain Bretherton, bowing.
‘And just what do you think you’re doing with my granddaughter? Eh? Young jackanapes.’
‘I was thanking her for taking pity on me last night and dancing with me.’
‘Taking pity on you? That’s a likely story.’
She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but Captain Bretherton seemed to stiffen. His voice was certainly a bit cool when he said, ‘Miss Hutton, now that I have restored you to your grandfather, I shall bid you good day.’
Her spirits plunged as he disappeared into the throng. That was probably the last she’d see of him. He might say he wanted to get to know her better, but no man, at least none with any pride, would stand for being addressed as a jackanapes.
‘Didn’t take long to get him to take to his heels, did it?’ Grandfather was glaring in the direction of Captain Bretherton’s retreat. ‘Though I warned you about fellows of his stamp, yesterday. What do you mean by dancing with him, eh?’
‘Well, he asked. And I didn’t have any reason to refuse...’
‘That’s the trouble with places like this. Full of strangers. Anybody can pass themselves off as marquesses or dukes...’
She took a breath to object. Grandfather’s eyebrows lowered even further. ‘Or call themselves captains,’ he persisted. ‘Ten to one he never got nearer a regiment than walking past a parade in Hyde Park.’
‘Well, no, but then he is in the navy. He...’
‘Playing on your susceptibilities is he, because of Sam?’
Lizzie flinched. Firstly, the chances Captain Bretherton knew she’d even had a brother, let alone one who served in the navy, were so remote as to be laughable. And secondly, why would he play on her susceptibilities?
‘Just let him know you don’t have a dowry, next time he comes sniffing round. Then we’ll see what his motives really are.’ He rapped on the floor with his cane. Though he might as well have struck her with it again.
‘Very well, Grandfather,’ she said, with as much meekness in her voice as she could muster. ‘Next time I see him, the first thing I shall do is tell him I am penniless.’
She hadn’t thought it was possible for his eyebrows to get any lower, but they did. And he thrust out his jaw, as though he was trying to decide whether she was being sincere. But, after a moment or two, he leaned back in his chair, with a ‘hmmph’, and then turned his shoulder to carry on the conversation in which he’d been engaged before.
Lizzie took up her station behind his chair, her chin up, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She wasn’t trembling, although the entire episode would have humiliated any girl who hadn’t grown inured to such scenes over the years. She told herself that Grandfather probably meant well. That he was trying to protect her, in his own, inimitable fashion. That Bath was the kind of place that did attract men on the lookout for gullible heiresses, or so Lady Buntingford had told her. And that it didn’t matter what they looked like. A practised seducer would make his intended victim feel as though there was something special about her. Something that only he, out of the whole world, could appreciate. Make her believe he truly loved her. So that he could get his hands on her money.
So, the sooner she informed Captain Bretherton that she had none, the sooner she would know whether his interest in her was genuine.
Or not.
Chapter Six (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
He strode from the Pump Room, his fists clenched. No wonder Lady Rawcliffe had said Miss Hutton would jump at the chance to escape her grandfather, if that was an example of the way he treated her. The old man should have taken an interest in the stranger who’d escorted her back to his side, not driven him away. After insulting her, in front of all the other Bath quizzes, by insinuating that no man could possibly have asked her to dance for any reason except from pity.
He’d had to walk away before retaliating in kind. Which wouldn’t do his prospects any good. You couldn’t get into a stand-up row with a man, then ask for permission to court his granddaughter. Or a sit-down row, anyway, since the old man hadn’t stirred from his chair.
He whipped off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Since today was Tuesday, he wasn’t going to be able to see Miss Hutton tonight and attempt to offer her any comfort. Because it would be cards in the Assembly Rooms. Still, since he’d already told her his aversion for games of chance, she wouldn’t expect to see him. She wouldn’t think her grandfather had scared him off.
Would she?
* * *
It felt as if a month went past, rather than just a day and a half, before he was entering the Assembly Rooms again. For on his return from his daily swim, he’d found a muscular young man waiting for him outside the door of his hotel room, bearing a message from Rawcliffe and Becconsall. They’d decided he needed a bodyguard, apparently, and had sent Dawkins to perform that duty, under cover of being his valet. It had taken some time for them to discuss strategy. By the time they’d reached an understanding it had been too late to attend the Pump Room. So he was chafing at the bit by the time he entered the room where he hoped he might find her attending the Wednesday night concert.
And it wasn’t all to do with furthering his quest to find Archie’s killer, either. Even if he never got any further with Miss Hutton, he simply had to convince her that he hadn’t danced with her out of pity. Although he did feel a bit sorry for her, in some respects. She really needed someone to give her a bit of confidence, so that she could blossom into the kind of woman any man would be proud to call his wife.
Any man but him, that was. He might have agreed to pose as an eligible bachelor, but he didn’t really have anything to offer any woman. He’d returned from France a hollow shell of the man he’d once been. And even that man hadn’t been in any position to take a wife. He had to live on his pay. Which meant that not only would his wife have to struggle just to get by, but she’d be doing it alone, because he’d be away at sea.
He scanned the room for a glimpse of her. She should be easy enough to spot. She stood head and shoulders above every other female, and most men, in any room. And her silvery hair was very distinctive, too. He’d certainly had no trouble picking her out from the crowds in the Pump Room, that first time.
A smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the moment she’d backed into him, with such force she’d knocked the cup of water from his hand. And the sudden, surprising flare of attraction that contact with her body had provoked. Surprising, because he hadn’t felt any such stirrings since the day he’d fallen into the hands of the French.
But not unwelcome. For one thing it was proof that he was recovering, physically at least. For another, it meant that in one respect he would not be deceiving Miss Hutton at all. He was genuinely attracted to her.
Ah, there she was. His heart lifted. And not just at what she might represent in terms of vengeance for Archie. She looked stunning with the candlelight gleaming on her silvery hair. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Indeed, it wasn’t until he was within a few feet of her that he noticed the older woman standing with her. The same one who’d been with her the night he’d asked her to dance.
He bowed to them both, wondering how he was going to be able to detach her from her chaperon. ‘Miss Hutton, it is a pleasure to find you here tonight.’ And it was. He didn’t have to feign delight. He was delighted to see her again.
Though she didn’t appear to feel the same. On the contrary, she was looking at him as though he was an unexploded shell that had landed at her feet. Until the lady at her side nudged at her with her bony elbow.
‘Oh. Yes,’ said Miss Hutton with one of her frequent blushes. ‘Lady Mainwaring, this is... Well, he says his name is Captain Bretherton.’
‘My name is Captain Bretherton.’ Or at least, that was part of it. He never used the part of his title that referred to his earldom, since the title had never been of any use to him whatever. What use was insisting on being addressed correctly when the title denoted nothing but shame? When it was hollow? Since his father, the previous earl, had left things in such a shambles that his trustees had not even had the money to keep him in school.
‘Lady Mainwaring, charmed to make your acquaintance,’ he said, a touch untruthfully, since he heartily wished she’d take herself off so he could have Miss Hutton to himself.
‘Well, it’s equally charming to meet you, too,’ simpered Lady Mainwaring. ‘But you will have to excuse me. I see somebody just over there to whom I simply must speak.’ And just like that, his view of her capsized. Instead of being pleased he’d dispensed with her so easily, he was indignant that she’d abandon her charge with such alacrity. Leaving her at the mercy of a man she didn’t know. He could be a cold-hearted seducer for all Lady Mainwaring knew.
In fact, his conscience muttered, he wasn’t that much better.
‘Miss Hutton,’ he said. And then foundered. He gritted his teeth. Captain Hambleton wouldn’t have been at a loss right now. Even if he had been three sheets to the wind. And as for Lieutenant Nateby...
‘I think I had better inform you,’ said Miss Hutton, flinging up her chin, ‘that I have not a penny to my name.’
That was her grandfather’s doing, he supposed. ‘Your financial status,’ he said with a touch of indignation, ‘has no bearing on my interest in you.’ Perversely, the moment the wariness started to fade from her eyes, guilt started twisting at his vitals. He might not have any intention of robbing her, but he did have an ulterior motive for pursuing her. And her grandfather must have detected that something was not completely genuine about his interest.
For some time there had been a discordant noise forming a background to the general hubbub, but now the strains of a recognisable tune began to dominate.
‘Would you care to sit and listen to the music?’ he asked her, grasping at the opportunity to turn their conversation away from the murky subject of his motives. ‘Or would you prefer to take a turn about the room?’
Miss Hutton shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes troubled. He could almost see her slipping from his grasp.
‘Please, Miss Hutton,’ he said, taking a step nearer, obliging her to raise her head a fraction to look him in the eye. ‘Please believe that I am no fortune hunter.’ He could swear his complete innocence of that crime, even if he was guilty of others in relation to her. ‘I told you that you and I match, did I not? Like...’ He searched desperately for inspiration. And came up with, ‘Atlas and Phoebe. Do you know anything of Greek legend?’
‘A little,’ she said, warily.
‘They were Titans,’ he explained. ‘Titans all governed heavenly bodies. In the case of Atlas and Phoebe, it was the moon. And with your silvery hair, I just thought...’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘What does Atlas have to do with anything?’
‘Oh,’ he said, taking her elbow and scanning the seating area for a couple of vacant chairs, since, as he’d got her engaged in conversation, he might as well take steps to ensure she couldn’t escape with any ease. ‘Atlas is a nickname some school friends gave me. On account of me being so much bigger than the rest of them.’
Her eyes ranged over his frame. But then a little pucker appeared between her brows. ‘Why not Hercules?’
‘Well,’ he said, steering her in the direction of the back row of chairs, ‘we were only schoolboys, after all. And they seemed to think I was trying to take the weight of the world on my shoulders. On account of me being averse to seeing bigger boys bullying the smaller, weaker ones.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, only this time her expression definitely softened. He’d finally hooked her interest. Now all he had to do was reel her in.
‘And then it stuck, you see, after I went into the navy, since Atlas had a whole ocean named after him.’
‘The Atlantic!’
‘That’s it. Excuse me,’ he said to a lady occupying the end chair of the row in which he wished to sit. ‘Are those seats taken?’ He indicated the ones in the rest of the row. She frowned. Jerked her eyes to the two rows in front of her which were completely empty.
He smiled at her. ‘It would be most remiss of me to sit in front of you, since my partner and I would no doubt block your view of the orchestra.’
She eyed their combined height, and bulk, speculatively, then, with a waspish expression, got to her feet and stalked away. Leaving the entire back row free for him and Phoebe.
That was, Miss Hutton.
‘She may not have been all that interested in seeing the orchestra,’ Miss Hutton pointed out, as he ushered her into a chair. ‘Not many people do pay all that much attention to them, after all. She was probably just resting her feet for a moment.’
‘Well, now she can rest them elsewhere,’ he said, settling himself beside her. ‘Do you have a programme upon you?’ He glanced down at her lap, on which she’d placed her large and rather lumpy-looking reticule. She shook her head as she clutched at it. And then she averted her head and gazed in the general direction of the orchestra, a tide of pink creeping up her cheeks.
And damn it if he had any idea what to say to her, now he had her all to himself. With nobody to overhear.
Rawcliffe had been right. He wasn’t cut out for this type of work. He was a man of action, not words. Were he standing on the deck of a ship, preparing to go into battle, he’d know what to do. His mind would be assessing the enemy’s capabilities, with one eye to the wind and the tide. Weighing up the strengths and weaknesses of his men, his supplies.
But here, on a spindly chair, in a stuffy room, with an orchestra plunking out a backdrop to the conversations of the other, mostly elderly concert-goers, he was at a bit of a loss.
And what did that say about him? That he was better at orchestrating acts of violence, in order to smash his enemies to a pulp, as part of man’s endless quest for conquest, that was what.
And once this interlude with Miss Hutton was over, once he’d brought Archie’s killers to justice, that was the world he’d have to go back to. A world in which he’d had to treat men like so much cannon fodder, rather than as human beings with any intrinsic worth. He was a warrior, not a lover. A man of action, not of sentiment.
So, rather than trying to find words, he reached for Miss Hutton’s hand, where it lay tangled with the strings of her reticule. And let that action speak for him.
She blushed, but did not pull it away. On the contrary, as the music swelled and throbbed, she tucked it under the folds of her skirts. Taking his hand with it.
And his own heart swelled and throbbed along with the violins as they sat, secretly holding hands.
The tide was turning in his favour.
Chapter Seven (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
Whatever could have put that grim expression on his face? Sitting this close, she could see him much better than when they were standing up and they had to preserve a decorous distance from one another. She could see the muscles clenching in his jaw, the grim line flattening his mouth and even the bleakness in his eyes. And just as at the first time they’d met, she wished she could do something about it.
When he reached for her hand, therefore, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to grasp it and offer him what small comfort she could. Even though it was not at all the thing.
Though what did it matter, as long as nobody found out?
Her heart tripped over itself as she not only formed such a rebellious thought, but also took action to ensure that it bore fruit. Concealing their linked hands took but a second, as she rearranged the folds of her unfashionably voluminous skirts.
His own breath hitched. Though he made no sign that anyone else could detect, she was sure he gave her hand a little squeeze.
Golly, but she’d never felt so wicked in her life! Was this really stumbling, stammering Lizzie Hutton? Sitting holding hands with a man? Practically in full sight of a room full of people?
If she’d been the kind of girl who giggled, she’d be giggling right now. Never had she felt so...giddy. Or so in tune with a piece of music. Whenever the violins soared, so did her heart, as she revelled in the feel of his hand clasping hers, his response when she’d told him she wasn’t an heiress.
When the instruments groaned and wept, she found herself biting her lower lip and wondering when it was all going to end. And if people would carry the tale back to Grandfather about the way they were sitting so close together. If such talk would send him into retreat. After all, he surely wouldn’t want his name linked too closely with a girl he’d only known a matter of days.
The musicians did not finish their piece until Lizzie was so wrung out she could understand why some people actually wept during certain performances. And though it was not because of their skill, but because of the man next to whom she was sitting, she knew she ought to join in the applause that was breaking out, politely, all round the room. Only, that would mean she’d have to let go of his hand.
While she was still hesitating, he gave her hand one last squeeze and then released it. Which meant she had to let go. She couldn’t very well keep clinging to his hand, not once he’d started clapping, could she? Even though it felt as though his action had cast her adrift.
She forced her eyes to look in the direction of the musicians and lifted her own hands to clap, which she did with considerably more energy than anyone else. Hopefully, then people would think she’d been moved by the power of the music, if they noticed she was upset. Especially since she had no reason to be sad. She’d never been completely alone in the world. She’d always had some member of family to take her in. It was ridiculous to feel as though she’d never been more alone, in all her life, when she was sitting in a room full of people.
The applause soon died away. Long before she’d pulled herself together. So when Captain Bretherton turned to her and asked if she’d like to go to the tea room and take supper, she had to bite her tongue.
Supper? How could he sit there talking about tea, and supper, in that reasonable, casual tone, as though holding hands with her had meant nothing?
Though perhaps it had meant nothing. Perhaps he was the kind of man who held hands with females, clandestinely, all the time. What did she know of him, really? What kind of man he was?
And he was a man, not a demi-god, even if some people did call him Atlas.
‘I had better go and see if Grandfather wants anything first,’ she said. Even though what she wanted was to spend the rest of the evening with him. Holding hands again. Or even more...
She looked at his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him? To have him kiss her?
The longing that tore at her insides was so fierce she could see herself flinging herself at him, right there in the concert room, and scandalising the rest of the concert-goers. Panicked, and confused by the strength of her reactions to a man who was virtually a stranger, she leapt to her feet, with the result that the chair upon which she’d been sitting overturned with a crash. Everyone turned to stare, of course. And then a wave of laughter rippled round the room. Closely followed by a chorus of comments. She couldn’t hear the actual words, but she knew the kinds of things they’d all be saying.
That Miss Hutton. Always so clumsy. So awkward. I wonder why that handsome officer is paying her so much attention?
The handsome officer in question bent forward to right her chair at the exact moment she did the same. With the result that they clashed heads. To the increased amusement of everyone else in the room.
‘Please, Miss Hutton, allow me,’ he said, placing one hand on her arm and pushing her firmly, but gently, aside.
‘I... I...’ She raised both hands to her cheeks, which were flaming hot. ‘Th-thank you, but I really do need to return to my grandfather.’ With that, she turned and fled.
* * *
He’d pushed her too far, too fast, holding hands like that. He hadn’t thought she’d minded. He hadn’t been holding on to her all that hard. She could have pulled her hand free at any time. But she hadn’t.
Perhaps it had only hit her, what she’d done, when the music had finished. It had been a rather powerful piece, one that tugged at the emotions. Perhaps she’d been carried away with it and not realised how—what was it girls said of such behaviour?—fast she’d been, until it came to an end?
Damn, but he hoped he hadn’t ruined everything.
He couldn’t pursue her into the card room. The old Colonel would simply send him packing, again.
He’d have to hope he could catch her at the Pump Room again. And reassure her that his intentions were honourable.
Only, it felt a bit too soon to start speaking of marriage. She was bound to become suspicious of him, if he appeared to have come to such a momentous decision after knowing her only a few days.
He had to be more patient with her. Allow her to get used to him. Reassure her that nothing she did was going to put him off her. Make her believe that everything she did fascinated him.
Which wouldn’t require any acting at all, come to think of it. She was such an intriguing bundle of contradictions. So bold one moment, in the way she’d hidden their clasped hands. Then so timid, darting away from him like a startled fawn.
He didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of her. She would be endlessly fascinating. Like the sea. Even her eyes, now he came to think of it, put him in mind of the colour of certain parts of the Mediterranean. A colour you never saw anywhere else. Or at least he hadn’t thought so.
An elderly couple strolled past, amused expressions on their faces. Which brought him up short. Made him realise he’d been standing stock still, in the middle of the room, gazing after Miss Hutton like a...
He plunged his fingers through his hair and made a beeline for the exit. Tomorrow. He’d seek her out at the Pump Room and continue his counterfeit courtship of her tomorrow.
* * *
But the next day, neither Miss Hutton nor her grandfather put in an appearance at the Pump Room.
Nor did they show up at the fancy ball that night.
He paced the floor of his room, later, wondering how to proceed. It was just possible, he supposed, that her grandfather had taken a turn for the worse and couldn’t stir out of doors. He might have some genuine illness for which he was seeking treatment in Bath, rather than merely coming here to gossip with his cronies.
He’d simply have to wait and see if the old fellow recovered. He wasn’t yet on familiar enough terms with Miss Hutton to just call upon her and enquire after her grandfather’s health. Not taking into account the way Colonel Hutton had taken an instant and irrational dislike to him.
* * *
‘Shall I snoop about a bit, sir,’ Dawkins asked on the second morning he returned from the Pump Room without seeing her, ‘and see what I can find out? After all, that’s why Their Lordships sent me down here. To be an extra pair of eyes.’
‘No.’ The very idea of letting someone spy on Miss Hutton revolted him. ‘I will ask some of her acquaintance, openly, what they know of her whereabouts.’
‘Ah, yes, playing the role of smitten suitor. Very clever.’
No, it wasn’t clever. It was just...the obvious course to take.
* * *
The next day, when he attended the Pump Room and joined the queue to purchase a cup of the disgusting water that was supposed to be helping restore him to health, he spotted Lady Mainwaring. She would be the perfect person to approach, since he’d met her first in Miss Hutton’s company. If anyone knew what was going on in the Hutton household, it was likely to be her.
‘Good morning, my lady,’ he said, sweeping her a bow.
‘Good morning Captain,’ she replied, according him a nod, rather than a curtsy.
‘I was wondering if you knew how Colonel Hutton is faring?’
‘Colonel Hutton?’ She gave an arch smile. ‘I would have thought your interest was in his granddaughter.’
‘Yes. Well...but...it’s just I haven’t seen either of them for a day or two. So I assumed he had taken a turn for the worse.’
She pursed her lips. ‘His temper certainly has. According to Mrs Hutchens, who lives just across the way from his lodgings, he was in a rare taking. Ordered his bags packed and his horses put to.’
‘Horses?’
‘Yes. He’s gone home. Cancelled the lease on his lodgings and asked for his money back. Quite the commotion, there was, with the leasing agent, over that, since the agent refused to reimburse him a single penny.’
He wondered how on earth the woman knew such things. Thought it best not to ask. But to just be grateful she did.
‘Home, to Dorset?’
Lady Mainwaring’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes. My goodness, it didn’t take you long to discover where Miss Hutton hales from, did it?’
Well, no, but then he’d known it before he’d even set foot in Bath. Not that he was fool enough to correct Lady Mainwaring’s assumption.
‘Did your friend happen to find out why they left?’
She shook her head. ‘You would think, with that parade-ground voice of his, that she would have been able to make out just the gist of it, wouldn’t you? But even the cook he hired with the house hadn’t been able to discover why they all left so suddenly. But then by the time she came into work on Thursday morning, the agent was there and the battle in full swing.’
Thursday morning. She’d left Bath the very day after the concert.
Was it a coincidence? Or could it be a result of his own behaviour? Could someone have seen him holding hands with her and told her grandfather?
That was the trouble with making a daring move. The rewards could be great, but sometimes the risks meant the end result could be catastrophic.
Though, in this case, he could see a way to come about. He’d simply adapt the plans Rawcliffe and Becconsall had drawn up. They’d instructed him to cajole Miss Hutton into inviting him to spend Christmas with her at Lesser Peeving. Instead, he would move his pursuit of Miss Hutton to the next level by going down to Peacombe, a little seaside town which boasted a hotel or two. And from where he could beat a path to her door.
Chapter Eight (#ufb3213a9-d763-5190-9357-c30d2bea89af)
‘Good afternoon, sir, and welcome to the Three Tuns,’ said an oily-looking man who put Harry in mind of an exceptionally crooked tavern keeper he’d had the misfortune to have dealings with in Naples. All smiles for paying customers, all double-dealing behind the scenes. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I want a room for myself and my manservant.’
‘A room?’ The landlord looked confused.
‘This is an hotel, is it not?’
‘Yes, of course it is, I just...’ The landlord replaced the confusion with an ingratiating smile. ‘We do not usually get many visitors so late in the year.’
‘Which means, I hope, that I can have my pick of rooms.’
The landlord ran an appraising eye over Harry, from the gold braid on his hat, to his battered and scuffed boots, judging the cost and age of everything he saw. Harry pretended not to notice.
‘Since I suffer from,’ Harry said, ‘that is, since I may have need of my manservant during the night, I will want a large room, in which you can place a truckle bed, or one with a dressing room in which one can be placed.’ Though Harry didn’t think whoever was responsible for Archie’s death was likely to try sneaking into his room and stabbing him while he lay sleeping, Dawkins had insisted they take no chances.
‘May I ask how long you are considering staying with us?’
‘A week to begin with. After that, it depends upon how my...business in the area progresses. I take it you require payment in advance? For the first week, that is.’
Harry didn’t wait for the landlord to answer, he just pulled out the roll of folding money Rawcliffe had handed him ‘for expenses’ before leaving London, peeled off one note and handed it over.
The landlord didn’t appear to even glance at it before palming it and making it disappear somewhere within the folds of his own coat.
‘I believe you would be most comfortable in our first-floor suite,’ he said. ‘It has a sea view, which some former occupants...’ he leaned in as though sharing a titbit of gossip ‘...a marquess and his new bride, remarked upon most favourably.’
Just as he’d thought. The man was a rogue. The marquess and bride to whom he’d referred had to be Lord and Lady Rawcliffe, who had come to Peacombe earlier that year. There couldn’t be any other marquess eccentric enough to have attempted to take his bride to such an unfashionable destination for her bride trip. But when Rawcliffe had stayed down here, he’d rented an entire lane full of cottages to house himself and his retinue, according to Becconsall, who’d found it highly amusing. Nevertheless, he could not let on that he knew. He wasn’t supposed to have any connection to Rawcliffe at all, let alone be so close to him that he knew where he’d spent his honeymoon. So he took the man up on the other part of his statement.
‘I have seen quite enough of the sea during my career to date,’ he said curtly, hoping the landlord would draw the correct conclusion about his background. Since he was not going to be a guest of the Colonel and Miss Hutton, he and Dawkins had come up with a revised plan to explain his presence in Peacombe. They’d then written to Rawcliffe to inform him that Harry would drop a steady stream of crumbs of information, as though unwittingly, in order to control the gossip that his arrival in the small seaside town would engender.
So far, he thought he’d done a fair job of announcing that he’d been in the navy and had more money than sense.
‘Very good, sir. My name is Mr Jeavons,’ said the landlord with a smug bow. ‘It will not take long to prepare our best suite, for you. Jones,’ he said, indicating a servant in a green apron, who’d been lounging against the doorframe of what appeared to be the entrance to a public taproom, ‘will take your luggage up.’ Jones pushed himself off his doorframe and made for the pile of cases Dawkins had just deposited on the stone flags. ‘If you would not mind just signing our guest book?’ He gestured to a leather-bound journal propped open on a shelf beneath the main staircase.
Harry obliged. Once Jeavons had glanced at the entry, which included his title and gave his estate in Scotland as his main address, the manager became even more obsequious.
‘Permit me to guide you to our reading room, where there is a fire by which you can warm yourself, my lord,’ he said, inching in the direction of a corridor which led into the bowels of the large, rambling building which occupied one entire side of the market square.
‘Captain Bretherton,’ Harry corrected him.
‘As you wish,’ said the landlord subserviently. ‘We have the London papers, as well as a large stock of books in our lending library. People—that is, the better sort of people—come from all over the locality to borrow books or simply to take coffee. In fact, I am not ashamed to confess that the Three Tuns has become the centre of the social life in this part of Dorset, since I made the improvements.’
Harry glanced round the deserted foyer, into which a little rain was gusting through the door which still stood open behind him.
‘Ah, if only you had been here during the summer months. Then you would have been able to enjoy concerts, and balls, as well as the very best of society.’
‘I was not up to dancing, during the summer,’ because he’d rarely been sober enough to know his left foot from his right. ‘Though my recent sojourn in Bath,’ he continued, hoping Jeavons would pick up on the fact he was posing as a semi-invalid, ‘has worked wonders.’
‘Ah,’ said Jeavons, with dawning comprehension. Finally. ‘You have been taking the waters. Did someone you met there recommend the health-giving properties of our own spring? Though it is not,’ he continued before Harry had a chance to make any sort of response, ‘as conveniently situated, I am sure that you will find the walk along the recently constructed promenade along the sea front, followed by the climb up through our beautiful cliffside gardens to reach the source, most beneficial to your health and well-being. And when you drink it—’
‘All I wish to drink, for the present, is some of that coffee you mentioned.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Jeavons with a deft bow. ‘Please follow me to the reading room, where I will serve you myself.’
He set off along the corridor he’d pointed out before and Harry followed, with Dawkins close on his heels.
The room to which Jeavons took them turned out to be far more appealing than Harry had expected from what he’d seen of the Three Tuns so far. There were plenty of comfortable-looking chairs arranged round various-sized tables. A pair of sofas flanking a cheerfully crackling fire. Newspapers and journals displayed on slanted-topped tables set beneath the windows to catch the light.
But what really caught his interest was a large, framed map, displayed on the wall between those windows, with the legend ‘Peacombe’ picked out in bold red lettering.

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