How to Treat a Lady (11 page)

Her jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

From his superior vantage point, he couldn't see into her eyes, so he placed his finger on her chin and tipped her face up. “Miss Ward, why do I keep getting the feeling that neither you, nor your mother, is being honest with me?”

She took a step back, breaking his contact, her brow lowered. “If you feel that way, 'tis most likely because of that bump on your noggin. I daresay you've addled your brains a touch.”

He took another step closer. She matched him move for move, backing away, her expression guarded. Her gaze flickered to the door.

“Don't even think about it,” he said softly. “Running away will solve nothing.”

She stopped moving then, standing firmly in place, her chin in the air. “The Wards never run,” she said with a decided air of hauteur. “Though if I
was
thinking of making a dash for it, you couldn't do anything about it.”

“Couldn't I?” He advanced again, only this time, he moved slightly to one side. She responded by stepping in the opposite direction—and ended up backed against the edge of a small table, hemmed in by a large chair on one side, and Chase on the other.

“Piffle!” Her full mouth thinned. “Please move out of my way.”

She had the most engaging eyes—large and appealingly shaped, with a delicate sweep of lash and brow. “Tell me something, Miss Ward, am I
really
Captain John Frakenham?”

She didn't even blink, the little jade. “Yes. You are.” Harriet leaned forward then, her gaze narrowed, an earnest expression on her face. “And you cannot disagree, unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you believe you are someone else.” Her brows rose. “
Are
you?”

It could have been funny. And perhaps it was, in a way. She didn't believe him when he said he didn't remember who he was. And he didn't believe her when she said he was Captain John Frakenham. In order to prove her wrong, he'd have to admit his falsehood. In order for her to prove him wrong, she'd have to admit to her falsehood.

It was a quandary of the highest order.

Chase, of course, knew damn well who he was, but he couldn't tell this woman. Not without potentially causing a maelstrom of gossip that could possibly alert his brothers to his location. This was a
small community, he reminded himself, thinking of all the tales that had apparently gone 'round involving the nonexistent Captain Frakenham. He could only imagine what they would say about a real, live, flesh-'n'-blood St. John.

He simply couldn't risk it. All he really knew about Harriet Ward was that she was very, very good at lying. Almost as good as he was. “If both you and your mother say I am Captain John Frakenham, then that's who I am.”

Some of the tension left her frame, and she nodded approvingly. “Indeed you are.”

Chase didn't know whether to laugh or shake the wench until her teeth rattled. She was a bold piece, this little sparrow who dared cage a lion. It was possible…extremely possible that Miss Harriet Ward might make for a very delightful dalliance despite her prickly exterior.

He rubbed his chin as he considered her from head to foot. “Hmmm.”

“What?”

“You are a curvaceous thing, aren't you?”

She flushed. “Stop that!”

“Surely you're used to me looking at you. And touching you, too.” Urged on by some imp of madness, he threaded his fingers through one of her curls where it lay against her shoulder, having escaped her bundled and bunched hair.

She immediately jerked away, and the soft silk tress slid from his fingertips. Unbound, he thought it would drape over her shoulders and down, curling possessively along the taut lines of her back. She was so small, without an ounce of plumpness to her except for the seductive curves of her breasts and hips.

He eyed her breasts for a moment. They were small, but well-rounded. They would just fit in his hand. His fingers curled at the thought, and he had an instant image of her naked and pliant beneath him—

She plopped her hands on her hips. “Look, Mr.—”

“Captain,” he corrected softly, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

Her cheeks stained bright red, her eyes flashing. “Whatever you are.”

“Don't you mean
who
ever?”

“No,” she said flatly. “
What
ever you are, you are being quite rude, staring at me as if I was a cow you were thinking of purchasing.”

“I was trying to remember you, of course. I keep thinking that there must be something”—he deliberately glanced back at her breasts—“that might trigger my memory.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can assure you that you've never seen that much of me.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Hm.” He pretended to ponder this a moment. “You're certain we've never—”

“Never!”

He pursed his lips and regarded the wall opposite as if in deep thought.

She stomped her foot, the heel making a solid thump on the rug. “
What
are you doing now?”

“It's just that…well, I can't remember a lot of things, but I do know that…I know that…” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I can't say.”

She huffed.

There was no other word for it—a sigh would have been softer, and a hiss would have been
sharper. No, Chase decided, it was a definite huff. He lifted his brows. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tell me.”

“I would, but I don't want to shock you, and I definitely don't want your mother to think that I—”

“Mother has nothing to do with this, and I don't shock easily.”

“I suppose…” He regarded her for a short time, then nodded. “Very well, then. I was thinking that it was strange that I should remember how a woman's naked body would look, but not remember yours.”

She stiffened, outrage in every line. “That is because you've never seen my body.”

“That's very strange. I hate to ask this, but ah…is there something wrong with you?”

Her mouth dropped open.

He placed a finger beneath her chin and closed it.

She snapped back to life. “What possibly could be wrong with me?”

“I don't know; you'll have to tell me.” He tapped his bandaged head. “I'm the one who can't remember.”

Her chin lifted another notch. “Look, Mr.—”

“Captain.”

She closed her eyes for a long moment, her jaw clamped tightly. “Captain,” she managed to grit out. “You and I were engaged, but not…not anything else.”

He sighed as if disappointed. “I see.”

“I believe we've said enough on this topic. Mr.—Captain, if you will excuse me, I have things I must see to. Please make yourself comfortable. Mother should return shortly.”

Chase didn't want to move, but he could tell Harriet meant business. There was a definite glint to her
eyes that told him she'd reached the end of her rope.

He moved out of her way and with that, Miss Harriet Ward gave him an infinitesimal nod, then swept from the room.

Chase had to stifle a grin. She really was a bundle of fire and sparks, this seemingly meager woman. He wondered how her barely contained passion would translate in his bed. The thought hung in his head, tantalizing him with images of what could be, what might be.

At that moment, something clicked into place. It was as if the stars had aligned themselves for this one moment. Chase had been on his way out of the country, leaving behind all he held dear. Yet here he stood, cast in the guise of a carefree sea captain, arguing with a blessedly logical female about his own identity.

Perhaps he wasn't meant to leave England yet. So long as no one in this little community knew he was a St. John, his brothers would never be the wiser. The thought of his brothers made his throat tighten…he had to leave. Had to spare them from the scandal his actions had caused.

All of his earlier amusement fled. He would stay long enough to help the Wards convince the bank that there really was a Captain Frakenham, and then he'd be on his way.

After all, what difference could a few days make?

H
arriet retired to her room. Located on the second floor, it was pleasantly, if somewhat sparsely, furnished, the bed old but serviceable, the dresser and washstand faded from so much waxing, the wardrobe mismatched. But the rug was thick and warm, and the curtains on the windows were new, presents from Ophelia and Sophia from a Christmas not long past.

Normally, Harriet took comfort in her room. But this time her heart was beating too thunderously for her to do more than stomp across the floor, drop onto her bed, and fall back against the coverlet.

Captain Frakenham—or whatever his name really was—was the most exasperating, overbearing, and arrogant man she'd ever met. He was also, she
had to admit, a remarkably good actor. He'd taken to the part of Captain Frakenham with astonishing ease. Almost with joy.

Oh, he'd overplayed certain parts. Rather like Sophia would do. But overall, he'd been quite believable. Harriet sighed, threw her arms over her head, and stared up at the ceiling. The stranger might not be Captain Frakenham, but he certainly looked the part. Tall, black-haired, broad-shouldered…for some reason, she'd pictured the fictitious captain just that way. She remembered the “captain” lying on the settee, dwarfing the whole room with his presence.

It was so perplexing! Whoever he was, she was certain he was not common born. His accent was impeccable and his clothes made by a master tailor. He also sported an unconscious air of command, as if he was used to people obeying his every whim and whimsy. That air of command hung about him, an almost visible cloak of authority.

Drat it, who
was
the man? There had to be a clue somewhere. Harriet reached into her pocket and pulled out the ring.

She'd thought for a moment that the captain had recognized it. There'd been an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. But had it been an unconscious reaction? Or had he indeed known the ring as his own but not claimed it?

She fingered the smooth silvered surface, squinting at the decorative runes cut along the edges. It was certainly an odd piece, not at all the sumptuous bauble she'd expect of a man like him.

Did
he know who he was? Or was her skeptical imagination interfering with her usual calm logic?

She sighed. All she knew for certain was that she and her family desperately needed him to continue
being Captain Frakenham, at least for a while.

Harriet slid the ring over her finger, the metal strangely warm. Her hand tickled as if a feather had run along it starting at the ring and ending at her wrist, where her pulse beat a steady rhythm. How odd.

The light from the window sparkled on the circlet, and Harriet found herself smiling. It was a pretty piece for all its simplicity.

Well, it would look very good locked in her jewelry box, for she wasn't about to leave it out where it might disappear, especially not if the “captain” suddenly regained his memory and decided it belonged to him.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She couldn't quite decide if he knew who he was or not. There were times when she was certain of it, but then other times he seemed somewhat…lost. Alone. Perhaps he had indeed lost his memory. Why else would he have agreed to assume the captain's identity? It was a puzzle.

She rubbed her thumb along the ring, turning it so that it sparkled. She supposed she'd better find Mother and see what was to be done with the stranger now that Gower thought the man to be Captain Frakenham. They needed only one—perhaps two—weeks. Surely the stranger could play the part for that length of time.

Harriet supposed she'd better remove the ring. She tugged…but nothing happened. The ring wouldn't budge.

Harriet pulled harder. Still nothing happened.

Sighing, she pushed herself upright, shoving her hair out of her face. Wonderful. She held her hand before her, grasped the ring, and tugged—
hard
,
wincing as she yanked. For a second, she thought it was slipping, but just as it moved, the ring seemed to tighten, to cling to her finger as if hanging on with all its might.

“Piffle!” Harriet said, alarm sifting through her. She rose and went to the washstand, rubbing soap on her finger, then pulling yet again.

Still nothing happened. A half hour later, after much tugging and muttering, Harriet realized the impossible—the blasted ring was stuck. She sat back on the edge of the bed and stared at her reddened finger. The ring didn't
seem
too tight. Indeed, it turned easily right where it was. But every time she tried to pull it off, it seemed to tighten as if by—

She curled her fingers closed. “Nonsense,” she said aloud, as if to reassure anyone who might be listening. “My finger must have swollen a bit. That's all.”

The words comforted Harriet some. That made perfect sense. Still, she couldn't help but stare down at the runes that collected the light and wonder at the way her life seemed to be going lately. First she'd found the stranger, who had promptly kissed her, followed by Gower's unexpected declaration, then the “captain's” infuriating attitude…and now this. Stuck with a strange ring on her finger.

A ring that just might belong to that infuriating jackanapes.

The ring seemed to warm at the thought. Harriet narrowed her gaze at it. “Enough of that.”

She stood. Perhaps Cook would know how to get the blasted thing off. With any luck, a touch of butter would do the trick.

Muttering to herself, Harriet made her way to the kitchen, wondering as she did so where her brothers and sisters were—things seemed strangely quiet. As
soon as she got the silly ring off her finger, she'd see what everyone was doing.

Harriet pushed open the door to the kitchen. The warm afternoon light streamed through the open windows and mingled with the scent of dried herbs.

“There ye are, miss!” Cook labored at a large wooden table in the center of the room, flour liberally dusted over her red apron. “I was just thinkin' bout ye, I was.”

“Were you?” A rich aroma caught Harriet's attention. “Mmmmm. What is that?”

Cook grinned, jerking her head toward a half dozen steaming pots. “Nothin' but dinner.”

Harriet counted the pots. Seven. Last night, they'd had mutton stew and peas and some of Cook's special crusty bread.

But this…it looked as if a feast was in the making. Harriet went to the pots, aware of Cook's covert gaze.

One after the other, Harriet lifted the lids. The entire kitchen filled with a rich aroma that made her mouth water. “Dumpling stew, roast saddle of mutton with mint sauce, plovers' eggs in aspic jelly, peas and asparagus—goodness! It's not Christmas again, is it?”

Cook chuckled delightedly and gave Harriet a meaningful look. “Don't ye be teasin' me, Miss Harriet! Ye know what day 'tis. Or will be soon! And 'tis not Christmas. Not with the weather warming so every day.”

Harriet closed the lid of the last pot, the clang echoing pleasantly amid the burbling sound of the dumpling stew. “I know what it is. The new rector is in town, and Mother has asked him to dinner.”

A sly smile crossed Cook's lips. “You'll have to ask the madam about thet. I was tol' to fix a sumptuous dinner and so I am. Ye should be pleased as pork, Miss Harriet.”

“I should be? What do I have to be pleased ab—Oh. I see. The captain.”

Blast it, she hadn't thought about the fact that the servants, who had not been privy to the fact that the captain was a figment of the Wards' collective imagination—only because it was suspected they might leak the truth—would believe the farce her mother was even then encouraging.

“Of course the captain!” Cook exclaimed. She beamed at Harriet. “Who else would I cook good mutton for if not your intended? I must say, 'tis a handsome man. I'm just a little miffed ye didn't tell me who he was right away.”

Harriet's jaw tightened. “Oh yes…well, I didn't want to ruin the surprise for Mother.”

Cook sighed happily. “I've heard so much about the captain that 'tis almost a wonderment to meet him.”

“That's what I thought, too,” Harriet muttered. “Where is the good captain now?”

“In his room. The missus thought he should lie down a mite. I must say 'twas a good idea, fer he looked a bit snookered after meeting with the banker.”

Cook wiped her hands on her apron. “There. All done. Do ye think the captain'd like a maraschino jelly with his dinner? I saved a bit fer a special occasion and, well, there aren't many more special than this.”

Harriet managed a faint smile. “I don't know what he likes. I'll have Mother ask him.”

“Ye'd best be findin' out, miss. Ye're the one as will be marryin' him,” Cook said cheerfully, scraping dough out of a bowl and rolling it as though her life depended on it. “I hope yer young man likes lemon tarts. Fresh and crisp they'll be, just the way ye likes them.”

“I like them any way I can get them,” Harriet answered truthfully. Even if they had been made in the captain's name. “I thought we were saving the lemons for the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Committee.”

“So I was. But the missus said to make them tonight and so I am. I always do as I'm told.”

That was a blatant lie. Harriet couldn't count how many times she'd asked Cook not to give Stephen quite so many pastries between his meals, a request that was actively ignored by all parties concerned.

Still, what concerned Harriet the most was that
Mother
had requested the tarts. That was not a good sign. At all. “Where is Mother?”

“In the library, workin' on the accounts, I suppose. That's what she said she was goin' to do, anyways.”

Harriet nodded and made her way to the door. “Thank you, Cook.”

She was halfway to the library before she remembered the ring. She glanced down at it and scowled, giving it a sharp tug. The blasted thing still wouldn't move. It would just have to wait until she finished talking to her mother.

Harriet shoved open the door to the library. “Mother, I wa—” She halted. Not only was her mother in the library, but the entire Ward family, as well.

Mother looked up from where she sat at the oak escritoire, calmly penning a missive. “There you are!
I was just going to send Derrick for you. We are having a meeting about the captain.”

“Glad you made it on your own,” Derrick said. He opened the book he held and settled farther into the large, plump chair, sprawling comfortably. “I was almost finished, and I didn't want to leave.”

“Oh, Harriet! Mother just told us about the captain!” Sophia gave an excited whirl, her skirts flaring out about her ankles. “Nothing could be more perfect! It's as if an angel sent him to us. And now, Mother says we're to act as if we are all in a play!”

Harriet looked at Mother. “A play?”

“Indeed,” Mother said calmly, dipping her pen into the inkwell. “We must make everyone believe that the stranger is indeed Captain Frakenham, at least for a week or so. Especially the staff.”

Harriet pressed a hand to her temple. “Surely it won't be necessary to take things that far. So long as Gower believes that the captain—”

“Harriet,” Mother said, gentle reproof in her voice, “you know how things got out of hand last time. I merely made mention of a fiancé, and, before you knew it, I was being hounded for details, which I imprudently made up on the spot.”

Harriet sighed. “I know.”

“I thought the story would remain contained within the confines of the bank, so I did nothing more to ascertain the rumor I'd begun. This time, things are going to be done in a more thoughtful, timely manner.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before, because there
was
so little information on the captain, people began to take it upon themselves to make up things. This time, we are going to grasp the rumor mill firmly by the horns.”

Stephen nodded. He stood leaning against the mantelpiece, his crutches momentarily idle against the wall. “Mother's right, Harri. Gower will run back to the bank and tell all. The next thing you know all mayhem will break loose; people will be streaming in, asking hundreds of stupid questions and trying to steal a look at him.”

Ophelia plopped down on the small leather settee placed to one side. “It will be just like when Mr. Wilkers told everyone he'd had twin calves off the same cow. Even old Mrs. Crumpleton came to see, and she hadn't left her home in over two years, claiming her knees were bad.”

Harriet opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it. Her heart sinking, she realized they were right. It wouldn't be long before the doorway darkened with all manner of people, all coming on some seemingly innocuous errand, but really thirsting for a glimpse of the captain. “Good God.”

“I know,” Stephen said. “I don't like it either. But I've thought it through and we've really no choice.”

“There has to be another way,” Harriet said. “I simply do not like this plan.”

Sophia blinked. “Why not? I think it's a perfectly good plan. And you have the best part of all! That of ‘fiancée in love.'”

“I don't wish to be a ‘fiancée in love.'”

“There!” Sophia looked eagerly at their mother. “I told you Harriet wouldn't agree to this! Perhaps we could tell people that the captain is really engaged to
me
all along and that I'm the one he really—”

“No,” Mother said firmly, eyeing Sophia severely. “I've already told you that would not work. We have to stick to the same story.”

Sophia sniffed. “Oh very well, though I doubt
Harri can pull it off. She's awfully stiff on stage. Remember when we asked her to play Falstaff last year? A perfectly delightful part, and yet she managed to murder it with every sentence. No one laughed a bit.”

Stephen snorted. “Harriet's nothing compared to you. Remember how badly you mangled doing Lady Ophelia last Easter? That was a tragedy indeed.”