Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (3 page)

She met the valet in the hall, where he must have been hovering, having no doubt been informed by the butler of her brother's return—and condition. ‘I'm afraid he's disguised again and feeling quite ill. You'd better bring up some hot water and strip him down.'

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the long-suffering servant, Amanda headed for the stairs. She paused on the landing, pressing her fingers against the temples that had begun to throb.

Between her irresponsible brother and her sullen cousin and having to watch Papa drift around the halls and fields, a wraith-like imitation of his former hale and hearty self, was it any
wonder she longed to leave Ashton and throw herself into the frivolity of London? There the most difficult dilemma would be choosing what gown to wear, her most pressing problem fitting into her social schedule all the events to which she'd be invited. Her day would be so full, she'd tumble into bed and immediately into sleep, never lie awake aching and alone, yearning for the love and security so abruptly ripped from her.

Oh, that she might swiftly make a brilliant début, acquire a husband to pamper and adore her and settle into the busy life of a London political wife, seldom to visit the country again.

She only hoped, as she went to search out Cook and rearrange dinner, that their unwanted guest would not make the last few weeks before she could set her plans in motion even more difficult.

W
ith a bestial roar, the crewman tossed the boarding nets over the side of the pirate vessel. Fear, acrid in his throat, along with a wave of excitement, carried Greville over the side and on to its prow, into the mass of slashing cutlasses, firing pistols and thrusting pikes. Blood already coated the decks, thick and slippery, when he saw the pirate charging at the captain, curved sword raised and teeth bared…

Abruptly, Greville came awake, his heart pounding as the shriek of wind, boom of musket fire and howls of fighting men slowly faded to the quiet tick of a clock in a room where warm sunlight pooled on the floor beneath the windows.

Morning sun, judging by the hue, he thought, trying to get his bearings. Brighter than light through a porthole.

About the moment Greville realised he was in a proper bedchamber—a vast, elegant bedchamber—in Lord Bronning's home at Ashton Grove, Devonshire, praise-the-Lord-England, he heard a discreet cough. Turning towards the sound, he spied a young man in footman's livery standing inside the doorway, bearing a laden tray.

‘Morning, sir,' the lad said, bowing. ‘Sands sent me up with
something from the kitchen, thinking you'd likely be right sharp-set after so many hours.'

‘Have I been asleep long?' Greville asked, still trying to recapture a sense of place and time.

‘Aye,' the young man replied. ‘All the first night, the next day and now 'tis almost noon of the next. Some of the staff was worried you was about to stick your spoon in the wall. But Mrs Pepys—that's the housekeeper, sir—she's done some nursing and she said as long as you was breathing deep and regular, there weren't no danger of you dying and that you'd feel much the better for the rest.'

He did feel much better, Greville thought. Moreover, he realised suddenly, for the first time since his wounding over a month ago, he hadn't awakened to the slow, strength-sapping burn of fever.

He was also, he discovered, truly starving. Contemplating what might lie beneath the plate cover on the tray, his mouth began to water.

‘You are right, I am very hungry,' he told the footman.

‘Shall I put the tray on the bed here for you, sir?'

‘Yes, that would be fine. Thank you…' He hesitated.

‘Luke, sir,' the footman supplied. ‘Sands says I'm to assist you with dressing and such, if'n you need any help.'

‘I'd like a bath after I've eaten, if you would arrange that. I'll be better able to ascertain how much assistance I'll require then. Oh—and if you please, ask that housekeeper for some linen bandages. I've a wound I'll have to rebind.'

‘Very good, sir,' the footman said, depositing the tray in front of him. ‘I'll go see about your bath. By the by, there's a chest by the fireplace and a note sent by your sister, Lady Greaves.'

Greaves? He did not even know which of his sisters had married into that name.

After being gone so long from England, his time spent at
hard labour in a job for which he'd had no preparation or training, the idea that he was part of a family beyond the wooden walls of the
Illustrious
seemed disorienting. Not that he'd paid a good deal of attention to his closest kin before his involuntary removal from British soil. A
frisson
of guilt passed through him. Truth be told, he'd seldom troubled himself to think at all about the family that had pampered and sheltered him for the first sixteen years of his life, before his father and sisters departed for India, leaving him at Cambridge. He'd contacted Papa only when he needed him to call upon his Army contacts to arrange Greville's service with the commissariat during the Waterloo campaign. And afterwards, wanting for some sort of position to support himself, he'd solicited his cousin the marquess's help in providing one.

He shifted uncomfortably. He still had much to atone for in rectifying how that latter situation had turned out.

‘Let me have the letter before you go,' he told the footman. ‘I'll deal with the trunk later.'

After passing him the folded missive, the footman bowed himself out of the room. Greville's growling stomach reminded him it had been many hours since he'd last eaten—he had only a dim memory of wolfing down some sort of stew sent up the night of his arrival. He put the letter aside, content to wait to discover which of his sisters was the mysterious ‘Lady Greaves' until after he'd taken the edge off his hunger.

As he removed the cover from the plate, the wonderful odour of eggs, bacon, beef, potatoes, ham and kippers wafted up, along with the sharp aroma of hot coffee and the pungent tang of ale. Inhaling with rapture, he abandoned himself to the pleasure of consuming the first full hot meal he'd had since leaving England eight months ago.

The food tasted better than any breakfast he could remember. Of course, after months at sea on a diet that consisted
mostly of hardtack, boiled beef and an occasional plum duff, it wouldn't take much for Lord Bronning's cook to impress him.

A short time later, his happy stomach replete, Greville broke the seal on the note and, still sipping the delicious ambrosia of hot coffee, rapidly scanned it.

The signature, ‘Joanna', indicated his benefactress must be his widowed elder sister, who had obviously remarried. He vaguely recalled that she'd sent him word of her first husband's death just after he'd taken over as manager at Blenhem Hill. Greville scanned his memory, but could not place any gentleman with the family name ‘Greaves'. Still, by adding ‘Lady' to her name this time—more dignity than had been due her after wedding a mere younger son from the prominent Merrill family—she must have married well.

She might even rank higher now than some of the former in-laws who had snubbed her. Greville hoped so.

If Papa and the rest of the family were still in India—and he had no reason to suppose they had returned—it must have been Joanna who'd pieced together the mystery of his disappearance, then entreated his exalted cousin Lord Englemere to search for him.

Having dismissed Greville from the job he'd solicited as estate manager at Blenhem Hill for incompetence and embezzlement—the first charge deserved, the second not—Englemere himself was unlikely to have been concerned about, or even aware of, Greville's precipitous and unwilling departure from England.

That Englemere had intervened, he was certain. Only a man with the influence and the prestige of a marquess, one who had the ear of the Admiralty board, could have effected his transfer, for the commanding officer of the
Illustrious
had categorically refused such a request.

He wondered how Joanna—assuming it was Jo—had
discovered his abduction. The note didn't say and his sister indicating only her relief that he was safely back in England, her hope that he would find the trunk of clothes she'd sent useful.

He felt another pang; absorbed in his own interests, it had never occurred to him to use the close acquaintances with young gentlemen of the nobility, acquired during his university days among them, to try to smooth his sister's way with her first husband's family. He was touched, and humbled, that though he'd been oblivious to her plight, she had learned about and concerned herself with his.

It would be good to visit her, he decided, a curious sense of anticipation stirring at the thought. Maybe the new Greville would learn to value family as his sister obviously did—even such a curmudgeon black sheep as himself.

He was distracted from his musings by a scratch at the door, which opened to reveal Luke and two other footmen hefting a large copper tub. They deposited it before the hearth, several others following in their wake to fill it with bucketfuls of hot water.

Greville eyed the steam rising from the tub with as much anticipation as if a naked mermaid might emerge from the mists.

Well, maybe not quite that much. Still, anxious as he was to redress that lack in his life and much as the spirit was willing, his still-feeble body probably would make better use of the hot water minus a hot-blooded, willing wench.

‘Does you need help climbing in, sir?' Luke asked.

‘I think I can manage. Is there someone who could trim my hair and beard after?'

‘I'm a dab hand at that, sir,' Luke replied. ‘I reckon I could help you.'

Greville smiled to himself. Lord Bronning undoubtedly possessed a valet, but such an elevated gentleman's gentleman
would probably disdain to offer his services to as unprepossessing a specimen as Greville had appeared when he'd limped over the threshold at Ashton Grove.

After a moment spent wondering what his own valet had thought months ago, when he failed to meet the man at their lodgings in London as arranged upon leaving Blenhem Hill, Greville said, ‘Thank you, Luke. I'll ring for you when I'm ready.'

The footmen dismissed, Greville climbed carefully out of the bed, shed the nightshirt into which someone had thoughtfully changed him the night of his arrival, unwound the binding at his chest and eased himself into the steaming water. Leaning his head back against the rim, he sighed in ecstasy.

For long delicious minutes he let his mind simply drift, finally returning to conscious thought with the resolution that never again would he go through life oblivious to the simple delights of hot water and nourishing food. After living for months at the brute edge of existence, he would savour every moment of comfort.

And every delight, he thought, bringing back to mind the lovely but disapproving face of his host's daughter.

The one pleasure he had probably missed most during his involuntary sojourn at sea was the company of women. Tall, short, slim, rounded, coy, sweet, even sharp-tongued, he appreciated them all. Though he prized most, of course, the deep euphoria of the ultimate intimate embrace, he also enjoyed the simple pleasure of feminine company.

Even with a talkative miss who was chattering her teeth off, Greville could tune out the soft voice and observe instead the rise and fall of a bosom animated by a lively discourse. Caress with his gaze the lady's smooth skin, sparkling eyes and plump, kissable lips. Trace with his eyes the enticing curve of breast and hip. Breathe in her unique womanly scent.

Was Miss Neville a chatterer? he wondered, grinning at the
notion. Somehow, he didn't think so. No, Lady Bronning had greeted him in the hall—so Miss Neville must be her father's hostess and chatelaine of his household. That would explain the proprietary, managing air he'd sensed during his one quick glimpse of her.

My, how perspicacious he'd become during the last eight months, he thought with rueful humour. Transitioning abruptly from being served to the one doing the serving—with swift and severe penalties for unsatisfactory performance—taught a man with amazing speed how to discern how much authority an individual possessed.

How much more pleasant to employ that new skill in contemplating a lady! Especially a female as lovely as Miss Neville, Greville thought, running the image of her through his mind again.

So slender and petite was she, the golden curls of her coiffure would probably fit just under his chin. He could readily imagine pulling her close, filling his nostrils with the sweet fragrance of warm woman and floral perfume. Smoothing one hand around that enticing round of derrière while cupping the plump weight of a breast in the other

His palms itched with longing and his long-quiescent member rose stiffly in water, reminding him with a surge of urgency exactly how long he'd been without a woman.

Pleased as he was at this evidence that his body was finally recovering, still it would be best not to let his thoughts drift in this direction. Though in the past he'd not been above seducing a willing miss, this particular miss was gently born and his host's daughter to boot. He didn't debauch innocents.

Well, not often. And anyway, that part of his life was over. The new Greville, the better Greville he'd promised the Lord to become if he survived his time at sea, didn't intend to indulge in debauchery at all. No, sir.

Now, if there happened to be a willing widow in the neighbourhood…

He hardened further at that arousing possibility. Then Greville pulled his clean, refreshed body out of the rapidly chilling water. Wrapping a towel about his naked hips, he took a few experimental turns about the chamber.

He could feel a pull to his wound as he paced, as though the lacerated muscles of his chest were somehow directly connected to his legs, but the discomfort was not as severe as the last time he'd attempted walking. Pausing in the strong light before the window, he inspected the cutlass slash, deep across his ribs where the ship's surgeon had stitched the edges together, shallower where the weapon's tip had caught his arm. The wound hadn't stung when he immersed it in water, he realised suddenly. Thank the Lord, it must finally have closed completely.

The stitched edges were still a deep pink, but no longer fiery red and pulsing with torment. He'd put on more of the salve the ship's surgeon had sent with him and had Luke help him bind it up again, but more to keep his garments from rubbing it this time than from a need to protect his clothing from its suppuration.

He moved from the window and took two turns about the room. He felt weak and light-headed—not surprising after having been fevered and confined to a hammock or cot for so long—but the knee he'd wrenched after he'd gone down in the fight was much improved, causing him barely to limp. All in all, he felt a sense of renewed vigour he'd not experienced in all the dark days since leaving England.

Stopping by the chair where Luke had deposited the trunk of clothes sent by his sister Joanna, he opened it and inspected the contents. The garments were new and of good quality, but hardly fashionable. As he removed each one and shook it out, he found himself grinning again.

Greville Anders had been famed since Cambridge for his sartorial flair. Possessed of impeccable taste, he sported the finest inexpressibles, wore immaculate linen and knotted the most complicated cravats at the neck of beautifully tailored coats that fit him like a second skin.