How to Treat a Lady (14 page)

He cast a regretful look at his fork and set it on his plate. “Yes, Miss Ophelia?”

“What do you think of my name?”

He pretended to ponder this. “It's very original.”

“And?”

Bloody hell, what more does she want? He was not used to being questioned. And he definitely wasn't used to being taken to task for having an opinion.

Chase tossed his napkin onto the table. “I don't know what I think about your name! I suppose
you're right and it's a rather sil—Oof!” He glared down at Harriet. “You kicked me.”

“I did not,” she said, her gaze not on him, but on Ophelia.

Ophelia's lips quivered uncertainly. “You think my name is sil—Were you going to say silly?”

Chase moved his foot carefully, hoping some feeling would return before morning. Couldn't anyone take a joke? “Of course I wasn't going to say that! What I said, was that I thought your name was rather
silky
, like good ah, silk.”

“Silky?”

“Yes, sort of feminine and soft and…shimmery.” His brow was damp with the effort, but he managed.

“Ophelia! That is the prettiest compliment!” Sophia gave an excited bounce. “That was
very
well done, Captain. In fact”—she shot a glance at Harriet from beneath her brows—“I think that's the prettiest thing anyone has ever said.”

Harriet snorted. “That's what you said when one of the Ferrell twins likened your eyes to the stars, which was not very original, I might add, or very apt considering your eyes are blue and the stars are all yellow.”

Sophia stiffened. “It was not one of the Ferrell twins, but Viscount Northrake's eldest son.”

“Whoever it was, it was the poorest attempt at poetry I've ever heard.”

Sophia's face turned red. “Oh! How can you say that? You have no appreciation for romance. None at all! Why when I think—” Sophia suddenly stopped, her gaze moving from Harriet to Chase. A sly smile crept across her lips.

Harriet recognized the signs immediately, alarm making her stiffen. “Sophia, don't—”

“Captain!” Sophia leaned across the table toward the man. “I daresay you don't remember this, but you and Harriet were quite fond of the barn. In fact,” she said, seeming to grow braver by the moment, “we were forever finding the two of you in the hay. Just as you remember.”

Harriet wished the ground beneath her would open up and swallow her whole, but it was not to be. The floor remained hideously firm, and all she could do was paste a smile on her lips and avoid looking at the captain.

She was certain the fool would be grinning, and she simply could not face such mockery. Harriet cast a wild glance at her siblings, seeking assistance, but none was to be had. Stephen was far too busy holding back a huge grin, while Derrick shoved a roll into his mouth to stifle a guffaw. Sophia was pretending to have something in her eye, so she was turned away, but her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

Only Ophelia wasn't laughing…she was frowning, her head tilted to one side. “I dislike the barn myself. Too smelly by far.”

Derrick swallowed his roll. “Depends on how distracted you are when you're there.”

“Distracted? By what? We've only two horses now. The rest of the place is empty.”

Stephen choked. “I ah, think that was the point.”

Ophelia's brows lowered. “The point? How can an empty barn be any different than one that is in use—Ohhhhhh!” Her expression cleared even as her cheeks pinkened. She looked in awe at Harriet. “Oh my!”

“For the love of—” Harriet began, only to catch “Captain John's” gaze. His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, his lips curved in a faint, challenging smile. Harriet's jaw tightened. He was enjoying her embarrassment, the wretch. She sent him a quelling glare.

Normally, her quelling glares served their purpose and could silence an unruly sibling in seconds. But somehow, they seemed to have no effect on overly handsome men with large bruises on their foreheads.

“Harriet,” Mother said, her soft voice distressed.

“Yes?”

“Would you…could you…please pass me the butter.”

“It's right in front of you.”

“Oh! So it is. Well, then. I shall need some more bread.”

Harriet reached for the bowl, unaware that the captain was doing the same thing. To Harriet's shock, his fingers brushed hers, lingering a moment.

She sent him a startled look, then noticed he wasn't looking at her, but at her hand. She followed his gaze and realized that he was looking at the ring.

Oh piffle!
She pulled her hand back so quickly that the bowl tilted and dropped to the table, the contents tumbling to the wooden surface.

“Goodness, Harriet,” Sophia said, reaching over and collecting the bread and replacing it in the bowl. “What's wrong with you? I've never seen you so nervy.”

Harriet picked up a roll and handed it to Sophia.

“Thank you, I—what's that?” Sophia's gaze was on Harriet's hand.

Harriet quickly tucked her hand into her lap, but it was too late.

Ophelia leaned forward. “I want to see it again!”

“No, no. It's nothing,” Harriet said quickly, tugging on the ring under the table and praying it would come off.

Mother frowned. “Where did you get that ring? It looked quite ancient.”

“I gave it to her,” came a deep voice at Harriet's side.

Harriet sent a startled glance at the captain.

He glinted a smile down at her, telling her without words that she would owe him for this little favor. “It was found near my things in the forest and I asked her to wear it for safekeeping.”

There was silence as everyone digested this, then Mother said brightly, “Oh, well then! That's very nice of Harri to take such good care of your things.”

Stephen, apparently feeling sorry for his sister, took the opportunity to engage Derrick in an argument about who had worked the hardest on the fence in the east pasture.

To Harriet's relief the rest of the meal passed in relative calm, except that she was uncomfortably aware of the man sitting next to her.

It was strange, the way she could almost feel the presence of the man beside her, even when she wasn't looking at him. And if she closed her eyes, she could feel his lips on hers. She considered that. Why did he affect her so? Perhaps it was because she didn't have a lot of experience with such things.

Yes, that must be it. Whoever Captain Frakenham really was, he was definitely a man of the world. His touch was magical, igniting feelings she'd never had,
but so would the touch of any man with so much worldly experience.

Dinner finally ended and Stephen stood. “Captain Frakenham, would you like to join me in the library for a touch of brandy?”

The captain stood almost immediately. “Of course. I hope, too, that you might provide me with a tour of the barn since I'm held to be so fond of it.”

“We shall do so first thing in the morning. I'm certain Harriet will be glad to accommodate you.”

Harriet sent her brother a flat stare, but he was too busy playing lord of the manor to notice.

The captain took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, right where the ring rested. His gaze lingered on the ring before he released Harriet's hand. “I look forward to touring the barn, Miss Ward. I'm certain it will open all sorts of interesting memories.”

Harriet's finger tingled warmly as she looked up into “the captain's” blue eyes. It was strange, but she'd never before noticed how very long his lashes were. They swept down at the corners and tangled a bit. A slow shiver went through her.

“Come, Captain. You may ogle Harriet tomorrow while we're gathering the sheep.” Stephen grinned and then retrieved his crutches.

The captain released Harriet's hand. “Good evening, Miss Ward.” He bowed to the other women at the table. “Mrs. Ward. Miss Sophia. Miss Ophelia.”

The second the door closed behind him, Sophia slumped in her chair. “Harriet! What a delightful man! You are so lucky. Mother, are you certain we cannot pretend that I am the one Captain Frakenham is engaged to—”

“Sophia, if you suggest that one more time, I will
have you clean every rug in the house.” Mrs. Ward stood, her face pink-tinged. “Harriet, when this all came about, I had not thought—that is to say, I hope you do not allow the captain to take advantage of you in any way.”

“Mother!” Harriet frowned. “I am not a green girl of sixteen. I can handle Captain Frakenham.”

Mother didn't look too certain. “I hope so. He seems dreadfully decisive. But it's only two weeks. And then he'll be gone.”

For some reason, the words did nothing to calm Harriet's riotous heart. Two weeks was not that long a time. But then again…Catching her mother's anxious gaze, she managed a fairly firm smile. “Two weeks. And then we'll be free of him
and
the bank.”

H
arry Annesley turned, the gentle breeze ruffling his cloak and stirring the fetid scents that wafted down the street. “I beg your pardon?”

The man facing him wrung his felt hat even harder, his thin hands trembling. “Sorry to bother ye, guv'nor, but can ye spare a pence fer a bloke as is down on his luck?”

Harry stared at the man, noting the grime and filth that crusted his collar, chilblains marring red and gnarled hands. Harry pulled his own sumptuous cloak about him, careful that the edges didn't flutter out and touch any part of the filthy steps upon which he stood. “What I have, I've made myself, and I'll be damned if I'll share it with the likes of you—”

He stopped, aware that a faint hint of his former accent was creeping into his voice, into his mind.
Damn it, he was no longer a member of the swill that lived in the East Side. Not any more.

Harry directed his irritation at the contemptible stick of humanity that stood before him. “Be gone. I have nothing to give you.”

The man's eyes blazed. He darted a quick look at the coach that sat across the street, then spat. “Full o' yerself, ain't ye? Yer pretty little coachman ain't close enough to help ye if oiye decides to take what oiye wants.”

Harry's thin hold on civility cracked, slipped, shattered to the ground. He grabbed the man by the throat and hauled him forward, a dangerously thin knife appearing from the depths of his cloak. “See this 'ere pike?” Harry snarled. “One more word outta ye, and oiye'll split yer gullet here 'n' now.”

The man's eyes seemed in imminent danger of popping out of his head. “Th—there's no need to get wisty, guv'nor! Oiye didn't mean nothin'—”

Harry shoved the man from him. The would-be thief stumbled backwards, then fell. He quickly regained his footing and skittered off, disappearing down an alleyway after one last frightened look. Harry secreted his knife back in an inner pocket. It would take three baths just to get the stench of this place from his nose.

He hated coming to this part of town, but there were resources here that no one could fathom. Resources he needed.

For the last week, he had been noising it about town that Chase St. John had given him a promissory note, then disappeared—a shocking breach of honor. Soon, Chase's name-conscious brothers would rush in and offer to pay the forged note just to silence Harry's assault on the beloved family
name. The problem was that they were being ridiculously stiff-necked about the whole thing. And each day that passed, Harry feared something might go amiss.

He desperately needed the assurance that Chase St. John would not come sauntering back into town and ruin all. Once the St. Johns paid the note, their pride would keep them silent about his trickery. No St. John would publicly admit to being bested. But if Harry was caught beforehand and Chase was present to denounce the forgery…Harry decided not to think about that unpleasant scenario. He simply would not allow that to happen. This money was the key to all of his problems; it would set his future and establish the Annesley name.

At this very moment across town, in a pink-and-green-papered sitting room within one of Mayfair's largest residences, sat Miss Letitia Johnson-Smythe. Cousin to an earl, her father had amassed a fortune in shipping, which left Miss Johnson-Smythe with that rare combination of good breeding and money. Shy, quiet, and painfully plain, she suited Harry's purpose perfectly.

He had been slyly working his magic on her, attending every event at which she was present, whispering in her ear about her beautiful eyes, writing secret love notes to her, and bribing her maid to allow him to meet them in the park. He was beginning to see some signs that she was smitten. With some funds in the bank to prove to Papa that he was not a fortune hunter, and with Letitia's own bleating to be allowed to be with her Dearest Harry, the future was looking bright indeed.

The only hurdle thus far had been with Chase's brothers. They seemed to believe that their beloved
brother would turn up at any moment. That was a false hope that already should have been dashed to the ground since Chase had said that, the moment he reached his destination, he would send his brothers word that he was never returning.

Harry was somewhat perplexed. He'd been carefully watching the St. John establishments, and there had been no flurry of visits, no long, serious talks as were wont to happen in a family emergency. Every time Harry met with one of the St. Johns, he looked for signs of distress or disturbance, but none was forthcoming.

It was most vexing.

Which was why he was here today. In Harry's estimation, fate was never fair—she smiled on those who had already possessed her and remained elusively out of touch for those who desired her more than life itself. He picked his way down the street to a dingy pub, glanced around, then entered.

Five minutes later, his pockets much lighter, he emerged and made his way to his carriage, satisfied that he'd given fate the nudge she needed.

It hadn't been all that difficult, really. Harry had simply greased a few palms and information had come tumbling out. St. John never traveled without a change of horses, so it had been simple to discover which roads he'd taken. And it had been equally easy to see if St. John had yet left the country—he hadn't. The private cabin that had been reserved in his name had been empty when the vessel had set sail.

Which meant that Chase St. John was somewhere in England, perhaps close to London. And that was not a good situation for Harry at all.

And so here Harry was…in a part of town he de
plored, hiring a man he detested, to do a job that he wished didn't have to be done.

He hadn't made any suggestions as to how the deed was to be accomplished. He had no desire for the dirty details. Let other, less sophisticated men deal with that sort of thing. All he'd asked was that Chase St. John not return to London anytime in the near future. Or ever, if need be.

The coachman opened the door and stood aside. Harry climbed inside and nodded. The door was closed and within seconds, they were rumbling down the narrow, squalid street, toward the bridge where fresh air and genteel amusements awaited.

Harry settled back in the corner of his coach, smoothing a hand over the velvet seat, breathing deeply of the scent of waxed wood and polished brass.

The fetid stench of the street where he'd been born faded with each cleansing breath.

 

“Time to rise, Captain!”

Stephen's jovial voice rang hollow in Chase's ear, dispersing a lovely dream wherein the intractable Miss Harriet Ward was being neither prim nor proper, but had somehow turned into a lush siren with a wealth of rich brown hair and the supple body of a dancer.

“C'mon, Captain! We've work to do.”

Chase reluctantly opened one eye. Bloody hell, it wasn't even dawn. And what did Stephen mean about “work”?

There was no way Chase was getting up. Not at this ungodly hour of the morn. He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head.

But Stephen was a Ward, and unfortunately that
horrid name seemed to indicate a preponderance of stubbornness. Within what seemed like seconds, Chase's blankets were yanked away and a candle rudely thrust into his line of vision.

“Captain,” Stephen said cheerily, “whatever is wrong? Not ill, are you? Come, the sheep awake.”

Chase snatched his blankets back. “I will come and tour the barn after I've had some sleep.”

Stephen yanked Chase's pillow from beneath his head and tossed it into a chair by the window. “This is no tour, but work. You're to help with the sheep today, remember?”

Chase threw an arm over his head. Had he really promised such a thing?

“So up! You've had some sleep. A good nine hours of it by my reckoning.”

Chase blearily opened one eye.
Nine hours, hell
, he thought.
More like nine minutes
. After he and Stephen had shared a very small glass of brandy in the library, the time had come for the household to retire. As he would have expected, the Wards went to bed at a ridiculously early hour—a time of night when Chase would normally just be getting ready to partake of a bit of dinner.

So it was that while the household slept, he was wide-awake. As soon as he was certain everyone was asleep, Chase slipped downstairs and into the library, in search of more brandy. He found it at once, sitting in regal splendor on a tray on the library desk.

He hadn't hesitated, but had found a glass and opened the decanter. There he'd been, stopper in one hand, a glass in the other, when for some unknown reason, he'd suddenly imagined Harriet
Ward's expression if she were to see him at that very moment.

“I am only going to have one glass,” he'd muttered to the apparition.

She had not appeared the least impressed.

“It won't hurt anyone.”

She'd raised her brows as if to remind him of all the damage that drinking had already done in his life. And drinking had caused irreparable harm. It had cost him his dignity, his honor, his pride…and now, his family.

Chase had looked down at the decanter, the liquid gleaming warmly. Then, with a sigh, he'd replaced the stopper and returned the glass to the tray.

Perhaps another night. Of course, that had left him wide-awake and with no amusement at hand. Chase had been forced to do something he rarely did—read. He decided that it was an embarrassment to the Ward family that one of their guests was so importuned, but there was nothing Chase could do about it. If reading was the only amusement available, then he'd see what books were at hand.

After an aimless search, he chanced upon a tome describing the sailing ventures of a questionable gentleman in the late sixteenth century. While Chase was of the opinion great quantities of the story were fabricated, he thought some of the tale might come in handy in his rendition of Captain Frakenham. Thus the candle was low before he managed to sleep.

“Rise, slugabed!” Stephen said, reminding Chase that late night or no, he was going to have to get up.

Chase opened his eyes to find Stephen grinning above him. “Blast you to hell.”

Stephen's grin widened.

Chase sighed and sat up, pushing the hair from his forehead. He hadn't seen this side of the morning in years. Oh, he'd been
awake
at the crack of dawn. But he'd never been
awoken
at the crack of dawn. “All right, all right. I'm up.”

“Excellent!” Stephen paused by the nightstand to light the candle with his own. “I shall await you in the breakfast room.”

“Excellent!” Chase muttered in a mocking tone, as Stephen closed the door. Good God, who in their right minds would choose to get up at this hour?

Chase sighed and stretched, then climbed out of bed, shivering a little in the predawn chill. Rubbing his arms, he crossed to the washstand to splash water on his face.

Why couldn't he have been saved by a family of lazy gypsies? Or some worthless ne'er-do-well drinkers? Anyone who might understand the importance of morning sleep.

But no. Chase had to be kidnapped by a family of sheep farmers who took great delight in torturing him with their healthy, fresh ways. It was sickening.

He made his way to the wardrobe and found his clothes, dressing in the semidark. His fingers seemed to still be asleep, and he fumbled with his cravat. Finally, too tired to care, he just knotted the blasted thing à la Belcher, a ridiculous fashion aspired to by the younger dandy set. Thank God he was buried in the country and no one he knew would see him.

Mumbling to himself, he made his way downstairs where he could hear the family gathered in the dining room, talking with a great deal too much vivacity for so ungodly a time of the morning.

He pushed open the door and was immediately assailed with the rich smells of a large breakfast. Situated on the large sideboard were platters of eggs, ham, bacon, pheasant, and toast. He blinked at the abundance of it, then turned to find himself looking down at Harriet.

She was dressed in an old gown of faded blue cotton, the skirts a little shorter than was accepted so that the ankles of her boots plainly showed. Chase realized with a faint sense of astonishment that the plain gown she'd worn the previous day must have been one of her best.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.

Chase found his tired lips curving into a smile. She appeared fresh and bright, her brown hair braided and pinned about her head. She smiled, her teeth flashing white and even.

“I hate to complain,” he said with a sigh, “but must you be so awake?”

“What else would I be at this time of the day?”

He glanced over her shoulder at the still-gray dawn that was just rising. “Day?”

Her lips quivered. “Morning, then.” Her gaze drifted to his hair. “I see you had to comb your hair in the dark.”

“I don't like your hair, either,” he retorted easily. He didn't. The too-plain style was far too severe for her face, which seemed all angles and eyes in the dim light.

A faint color brushed her cheeks as she touched her braids, then caught herself. “A pity, that, because the sheep like my braids and I'm much more concerned with how they feel about it than you.”

Sophia stood at the sideboard, a plate in her hand. “Harriet, don't monopolize the conversation! Cap
tain, what will you have? Some eggs? A pheasant? How about some ham? Baron Whitfield brought it to us just last week and it's quite delicious.”

“No, thank you.” Chase didn't think he could face such a magnitude of food so early in the morning. “Perhaps later, at ten or so when I'm more awake.”

“There won't be any food left by then,” Harriet said matter-of-factly. “You'll eat now or you won't eat at all. We can't afford to serve breakfast three times a day.”

“Better eat now,” Ophelia said cheerily.

“I would eat a lot if I were you,” Stephen said with unimpaired calm from where he sat, digging into a plate piled high with eggs and ham. “You won't get another chance until noon or perhaps later. And trust me, you'll be ravenous enough as it is.”