Never a Gentleman (3 page)

“Would you
please
get your pants on and leave?” Grace demanded, finally losing her patience. “I’m about to catch the ague down here.”

And damn him if he didn’t chuckle. “Anything you say, Boadicea.”

Which made Grace feel even worse. A few months earlier, Diccan had nicknamed her after the English warrior queen, undoubtedly
because he couldn’t think of another
female tall enough to look him in the eye. Which, as Grace well knew, was not necessarily a compliment.

“Why don’t you secure a private dining room?” Kate said to him. “We’ll meet you there.”

Grace heard some inarticulate grumbling.

“Trust me,” Kate said with a laugh. “They’re changing. See if you can get to the parlor before they make it back out of their
rooms. I would remind you that one of those people is Letitia Thornton, and you know she doesn’t consider a day complete unless
she’s destroyed a reputation or two.”

This time it was Grace who groaned. The news of her ruination would be all over London before dinner. Diccan, it seemed, had
no more to say. Grace heard the door open and close, and knew without being told that he’d left.

“Come out, little turtle,” Lady Kate said, her voice too gentle for Grace’s mood.

Grace poked her head out of the blanket to find Kate laying her clothing on the bed. “I truly didn’t try and compromise him,
Kate.”

Kate’s smile was beatific. “My darling Grace, I never thought it.” She tilted her head. “It has been a revelation, however.
Who knew our Diccan had such amazing… attributes?”

Grace almost retreated back under the blanket. Kate hadn’t even seen one of the attributes at its most amazing.

Kate evidently didn’t notice Grace’s reaction, for she wandered over to settle onto the window seat, where the sun warmed
her primrose skirt and set fire to her hair. The thick mahogany curls framed a piquant face enlivened by slyly amused cat-green
eyes and set off a perfect form on a tiny frame. Grace, of course, felt like a Clydesdale in her presence.

“I must confess, though,” Kate continued, a shadow flitting across those magnificent eyes. “There is no getting
around the fact that we’re in a pickle. What do you remember about last night?”

Carefully, Grace climbed to her feet and recovered her clothing from the rumpled bed. Grace couldn’t look at the untidy linen
without remembering those few moments of bliss. She knew her skin was flaming all the way up from her knees. Redheads blushed.
Grace went blotchy.

“I remember arriving here,” she said as she struggled into her chemise and petticoat. “I remember dinner.”

Kate nodded. “Excellent roast. The turnips, on the other hand, needn’t be mentioned.”

“I remember us having that glass of cognac after dinner.”

“Did it taste odd?”

Grace couldn’t help but smile. “Cognac always tastes odd to me, Kate. I never developed the liking for it you have.”

“And after I left you here?”

Grace paused with her gray walking dress in hand. She tried to remember entering this room, placing her candle on the small
dresser, unbinding her hair from its tight knot.

She shook her head. “I don’t even remember climbing the stairs. You really did leave me here?”

“Oh, yes. I assume if Diccan had already been within, you would have alerted me.”

“I would have made more noise than one of Whinyates’ rockets.”

“As you did this morning?”

Grace sighed, wondering how she could feel more miserable. “How could this happen?”

Brushing off her skirt, Lady Kate stood. “An excellent question. Finish dressing, dear, and we’ll see if we can find out.”

•  •  •

Diccan Hilliard was in a rage. No one could see it, of course. Diccan had long since perfected the mask of bland sophistication
that was his trademark. But as he strolled down the hall toward the private dining room fifteen minutes later, he seethed.
How could this have happened? He wasn’t a greenling to be caught with his pants down. And yet somehow between Paris and Dover,
he’d been drugged, shanghaied, stripped, and set up. And not by Grace Fairchild. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t
make the facts fit his accusation. Grace Fairchild had been with Kate, not sneaking aboard a packet boat with a bottle of
laudanum tucked into her chemise.

Could it really have been the Lions? Could Bertie have been right? Diccan fought the urge to rub at his head. He was still
wobbly and dizzy from the laudanum, and his skull felt too small for his aching brain. He could barely form his thoughts,
which was damned inconvenient. Because if he didn’t think fast, he would find himself stuck in Canterbury when he needed to
be in London as quickly as possible to pass on Bertie’s information. He needed to redeem the poor, sad boy, whom he’d left
lying in that fetid apartment. He needed to redeem himself for failing him.

He wanted to curse. London had to wait. He was stuck here until he unraveled this latest disaster. He had to locate his valet,
who should have been with him. He had to learn how he got here, and how his horse had ended up in the stables. And he needed
to deal with Grace Fairchild.

Sweet Christ, he thought, his head hurting even worse. Why her? Grace Fairchild had to be the most honorable, well-respected
spinster in England. She was also the most
unfortunate. Taller than most men, she was, to put it baldly, plain. His Aunt Hermitrude looked better, and she was sixty
and slew-eyed. To make it worse, Miss Fairchild didn’t walk. She lurched like a sailor on shore. Whoever named her Grace must
have been blind. Whoever put Diccan in her bed had been cruel.

He liked her. He really did. That didn’t mean he wanted to wake up next to her for the next forty years. His cods shriveled
just at the thought. He refused to even consider the fact that he’d woken hard and ready, with only that bony frame to entice
him.

He looked down the half-timbered hallway to the front door and thought how easy it would be to just leave. Walk out the door,
climb on Gadzooks, and not stop until London. Maybe not even then.

Which was, he suspected, exactly what his enemies hoped for. If he failed to marry her, his reputation would be blown wider
than Byron’s. Any accusations he made would become immediately suspect. If he did marry her, he would be delayed and distracted,
which might just give the Lions time to find their lost object and attack Wellington. It was an impossible choice.

Damn it.
Damn
it! He didn’t deserve this. Not now, when the war was over and he could finally come out of the shadows. Not when his future
finally looked promising.

A shuffling noise alerted him that he was no longer alone. Looking toward the public room, he saw that he’d been joined by
almost all the witnesses to the morning’s debacle. Of course it would be Thornton who would be the first to speak. The porcine
peer and his knife-thin wife were no friends of Grace’s.

“Wasn’t there anything better in town to entertain you,
old man?” Thornton asked with a simper and a nudge to his friend Geoffrey Smythe. “I know you regretted leaving that pretty
little mistress of yours behind in Belgium, but even that sway-backed bone-rattler of yours out in the stables would be a
more cozy armful.”

The malice in those words brought Diccan to a halt. “Pardon?”

Proving his dearth of intelligence, the overstuffed peer chortled, leaning close enough to inflict his bad breath on Diccan.
“Although they do bear a certain resemblance to each other.”

Diccan deliberately slowed his breathing. He had to remember that smearing this worm all over the floor would only delay him
further. “My friend,” he said calmly. “I know that you’re sensible.”

Suddenly Thornton looked a bit less assured. “Why, of course.”

Next to him, the slickly elegant Geoff Smythe leaned against the wall, arms across his chest, as if settling in for a play.
Diccan ignored him.

“Good.” He nodded to Thornton. “Good. Then you would never do anything that would force me to face you across a dueling ground.
Knowing, of course, that I have already stood up four times.” He gave a measured smile. “And walked off alone each time.”

He thought Thornton might have gulped. Even so, the man raised his chin, leaving him only three. “Doin’ it too brown, ain’t
ya? Not going to marry the chit, after all.”

Diccan froze. Of course it was what Thornton would think. The Lions, he suddenly realized, had counted on it. Diccan had never
been shy about announcing his sexual preferences, and there wasn’t a person who would dare to
claim Grace Fairchild fit the bill. And, truthfully, hadn’t he just been standing here, plotting escape?

But he couldn’t offer Grace up to this pack of jackals. He wouldn’t give Thornton the satisfaction. Nor would he give Thornton’s
wife a vulnerable soul to shred. Grace deserved better.

“I won’t marry her?” he asked, twirling his quizzing glass. “Why not?”

It was Geoff Smythe who answered, his classic blond English features coolly amused. “Why
not
? You really mean to face the prospect of that across the table every morning just because she winkled her way into your bed?”

“Actually,” Diccan said, turning away so no one saw the impact of his decision, “I do.”

“No, really,” Thornton protested, grabbing Diccan’s arms. “You can’t marry the chit.”

Diccan saw a faint sheen of sweat on Thornton’s forehead.

“What alternative do you suggest?”

But Thornton couldn’t seem to think of an answer.
Good Lord
, Diccan thought,
was Thornton involved in this, too? He certainly wasn’t the one who’d planned it. Thornton wouldn’t know how to schedule breakfast.
Maybe, however, he was supposed to have been the witness. The blackmailer
.

As for Geoff Smythe, Diccan wasn’t so sure. Deep waters was Geoff Smythe. Something to investigate. When he got out of here.

“The pater’s been nattering at me to settle down for years,” Diccan said, plucking Thornton’s hand from his sleeve. “I imagine
Miss Fairchild will do as well as any. If I do marry her, you’ll understand that I can’t tolerate any disparagement of my
wife.”

Now Thornton looked sick. “But of course,” he mumbled. Smythe was still smiling.

Diccan had once again started on his way when he stopped. “By the way, Thorny,” he said, as if he didn’t notice the fat man
swiping his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief, “I know why I’m here, but what in blazes brought you to a place as
boring as Canterbury?”

Thornton startled, the cloth floating from his fingers like a linen leaf. “Looking at horses. Old Brickwater has a string
to sell.”

Considering Thornton’s size, Diccan hoped Brickwater was selling draught horses. He kept his silence, though, sparing no more
than a nod before leaving.

The staff of the Falstaff must have known his need, for by the time he reached the parlor, a coffeepot and cup were on the
table. Plumping himself down in a chair, he drank cup after cup until the cobwebs began to dissipate.

The situation looked no better with a clear head. Only a week ago he had looked to his future with anticipation. After all,
he’d been promised recompense for all his hard work. A plum position in one of the newly opened embassies, perhaps. A position
at the peace talks. He could finally enjoy himself, doing what he did best, savoring the best the world had to offer.

He hadn’t even considered marriage yet. It would come, when he was ready. He would probably marry a diplomat’s daughter, someone
like his cousin Kate: sharp, intelligent, elegant, and challenging. A woman who could help him plot his course and celebrate
the success they’d both dreamed of. Instead, he would have to figure out what to do with Grace Fairchild.

The frustrating thing was that he loved redheads. He
couldn’t think of any more exotic treasure than that burst of fire right at the juncture of a woman’s legs, more promise than
color, a hint of the delights that lay beneath, a flash of whimsy and heat and lust. He loved every shade of redhead. He loved
their milky skin and their vivid personalities and their formidable tempers. He even loved the color of their freckles. In
fact, he loved redheads so much that he’d suggested that his last two mistresses dye their thatch with henna, just to please
him. He could get a cockstand just thinking of it.

Except for the freckles, though, Grace Fairchild could boast of none of that bounty. To call her a redhead was to exercise
unforgivable license. Her hair was virtually colorless, the kind of faded, dismal hue one might see on an old woman. Her skin
was almost swarthy from all her years spent under the Iberian sun, and her blushes unfortunate. She had no shape to speak
of, no temper, no spark.

The sharpest reaction he’d ever gotten from her had been the day he had dubbed her Boadicea. For just a moment, a spark of
fury had lit her eyes, a spirited defiance stiffening her spine. But as quickly as the fury had risen, it dissipated, almost
as if there were no place on her for it to gain purchase. Word was that she’d never even wept when she’d carried her father’s
body back from Waterloo.

As if called, the door opened and in she walked, clad in one of her ubiquitous gray dresses, her hair scraped back into a
tight bun. Diccan wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t quite look at him. He couldn’t believe what had happened that morning,
either. His balls still ached, heavy and thick with unmet expectations. Seeing her again now, he couldn’t figure why. His
body seemed completely disinterested in the lanky antidote who limped into the room with the briskness of a wounded cavalry
officer.

Almost betraying himself with a sigh, Diccan climbed to his feet and gave his best bow as Kate followed Miss Fairchild in
and shut the door. “Kate. Miss Fairchild. Let me ring for breakfast.”

Miss Fairchild went almost chalk white. “Not for me, thank you. Some tea and toast.”

Diccan tilted his head to assess her. “Stomach a bit unsteady?”

“A bit.”

“Muddled head? Dizziness?”

She looked up briefly as she reached the table. “Indeed.”