Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (3 page)

A deep male voice rumbled through the open doorway, carried on the light breeze.

Lenore straightened, rising a finger to summon Harris, the senior footman, to her side.

“Oh, Miss Lester! Could you tell us the way to the lake?”

Lenore turned as two beauties, scantily clad in fine muslins, came bustling out of the morning-room at the back of the hall. Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat, young matrons and sisters, had accepted her brothers' invitation, each relying on the other to lend them countenance. “Down that corridor, left through the garden hall. The door to the conservatory should be open. Straight through, down the steps and straight ahead—you can't miss it.”

As the ladies smiled their thanks and, whispering avidly, went on their way, Lenore turned towards the front door, murmuring to Harris, “If they don't return in an hour, send someone to check they haven't fallen in.” The sound of booted feet purposefully ascending the long stone steps came clearly to her ears.

“Miss Lester!”

Lenore turned as Lord Holyoake and Mr. Peters descended the stairs.

“Can you point us in the direction of the action, m'dear?”

Unperturbed by his lordship's wink, Lenore replied, “My brothers and some of the guests are in the billiard-room, I believe. Timms?”

Instantly, another footman peeled from the ranks hidden by the shadows of the main doors. “If you'll follow me, my lord?”

The sound of the trio's footsteps retreating down the hallway was overridden by the ring of boot heels on the portico flags. With a mental “at last”, Lenore lifted her head and composed her features.

Two gentlemen entered the hall.

Poised to greet them, Lenore was struck by the aura of ineffable elegance that clung to the pair. There was little to choose between them, but her attention was drawn to the larger figure, insensibly convinced of his pre-eminence. A many-caped greatcoat of dark grey drab fell in long folds to brush calves clad in mirror-glossed Hessians. His hat was in his hands, revealing a wealth of wavy chestnut locks. The newcomers paused just inside the door as footmen scurried to relieve them of hats, coats and gloves. As she watched, the taller man turned to survey the hall. His gaze scanned the area, then came to rest with unwavering intensity upon her.

With a jolt, Lenore felt a comprehensive glance rake her, from the top of her tight bun to the tips of her serviceable slippers, then slowly, studiously return, coming at last to rest on her face.

Outrage blossomed in her breast, along with a jumble of other, less well-defined emotions.

The man started towards her, his companion falling in beside him. Summoning her wits to battle, Lenore drew herself up, her gaze bordering on the glacial, her expression one of icy civility.

Unheralded, the hall before her erupted into chaos. Within seconds, the black and white tiled expanse had filled with a seething mass of humanity. Her brother Gerald had come in from the garden, a small crowd of bucks and belles in tow. Simultaneously, a bevy of jovial gentlemen, led by her brother Harry, had erupted from the billiard-room, apparently in search of like-minded souls for some complicated game they had in hand. The two groups collided in the hall and immediately emerged into a chattering, laughing, giggling mass.

Lenore looked down upon the sea of heads, impatient to have the perpetrator of that disturbing glance before her. She intended making it quite clear from the outset that she did not appreciate being treated with anything less than her due. The mêlée before her was deafening but she disregarded it, her eyes fixed upon the recent arrival, easy to discern given his height. Despite the press of people, he was making remarkably swift progress towards her. As she watched, he encountered her brother Harry in the throng and stopped to exchange greetings. Then he made some comment and Harry laughed, waving him towards her with some jovial remark. Lenore resisted the urge to inspect her list, determined to give the newcomer no chance to find her cribbing. Her excellent memory was no aid; she had not met this gentleman before.

Reaching the stairs in advance of his companion, he halted before her. Confidently, Lenore allowed her eyes to meet his, pale grey under dark brows. Abruptly, all thought of upbraiding him, however subtly, vanished. The face before her did not belong to a man amenable to feminine castigation. Strong, clean, angular planes, almost harsh in their severity, framed features both hard and dictatorial. Only his eyes, faultless light grey, and the clean sweep of his winged brows saved the whole from the epithet of “austere”.

Quelling an odd shiver, Lenore imperiously extended her hand. “Welcome, to Lester Hall, sir.”

Her fingers were trapped in a warm clasp. To her annoyance, Lenore felt them quiver. As the gentleman bowed gracefully, she scanned his elegant frame. He was clad in a coat of sober brown, his cravat and breeches immaculate ivory, his Hessians gleaming black. He was, however, too tall. Too tall, too large, altogether too overwhelming.

She reached this conclusion in a state bordering on the distracted. Despite standing on the step below her, despite the fact that she was unfashionably tall, she still felt as if she risked a crick in her neck as she endeavoured to meet her disturbing guest eye-to-eye. For the first time in living memory, maintaining her mask of calm detachment, her shield, honed over the years to deflect any attack, became a major effort.

Blinking aside her momentary fascination, Lenore detected a glimmer of amused understanding in the grey eyes watching her. Her chin went up, her eyes flashed in unmistakable warning, but the gentleman seemed unperturbed.

“I am Eversleigh, Miss Lester. I don't believe we've previously met.”

“Unfortunately not, Your Grace,” Lenore promptly responded, her tone calculated to depress any pretension, leaving a vague, perfectly accurate suggestion that she was not entirely sure she approved of their meeting now. Eversleigh! She should have guessed. Curtsying, she tried to ignore the reverberations of the duke's deep voice. She could
feel
it, buried in her chest, a curious chord, thrumming distractingly.

Attention riveted by a welcome entirely out of the ordinary, Jason's gaze was intent as he studied the woman before him. She was long past girlhood, but still slender, supple, with the natural grace of a feline. Her features, fine-drawn and delicate in her pale, heart-shaped face, he could not fault. Fine brown brows arched above large, lucent eyes of palest green, edged by a feathering of long brown lashes. A flawless complexion of creamy ivory set off her small straight nose and determinedly pointed chin and the rich promise of her lips. Her eyes met his squarely, her expression of implacable resistance framed by her gilded spectacles.

Unable to resist, Jason smiled, stepping slightly aside to gesture to Frederick. “And this is—”

“Mr. Marshall.” If her tormentor was Eversleigh, then his companion's identity was a foregone conclusion. Belatedly realising that she might well be playing with fire, Lenore retrieved her hand from the duke's firm clasp and bestowed it upon Frederick Marshall.

Smiling easily, Frederick bowed. “I do hope you have saved us rooms, Miss Lester. I fear we had not realised what a crowd there would be and made no shift to arrive early.”

“No matter, sir. We were expecting you.” Lenore returned his smile, confident in her role. As he was the only duke attending, she had allotted the best guest suite to Eversleigh, with the chamber beside for Mr. Marshall. She turned to Harris on the stair behind her. “The grey suite for His Grace, and Mr. Marshall in the blue room.” Harris bowed gravely and started up the stairs. Turning back to Frederick Marshall, Leonore added, “No doubt you'll want to acquaint yourself with your quarters. We'll see you both at dinner. Six-thirty in the drawing room.”

With a polite nod and a smile, Frederick Marshall moved up the stairs.

Lenore waited for the large frame on her right to follow, determined not to look up at him until he was safely on his way. The seconds stretched. Eversleigh did not move. An odd nervousness gripped Lenore. Eversleigh stood between her and the crowd in the hall; the sense of being alone with a dangerous companion stole over her.

Having found the novelty of being so lightly dismissed not at all to his taste, Jason allowed the tension between them to wind tight before remarking, in his most equable tone, “I understand, Miss Lester, that you are to be our hostess through this week of dissipation?”

Lenore raised her head, her expression one of remote serenity. “That is correct, Your Grace.”

“I do hope you won't be overwhelmed by your duties this week, my dear. I look forward to acquainting myself with what I have obviously overlooked on my earlier visits to your home.”

Rapidly calculating that if he had visited before, she must have been eighteen and intent on staying out of his or any other eligible gentleman's sight, Lenore met his gaze with one of limpid innocence. “Indeed, Your Grace? The gardens
are
very fine this year. I dare say you did not get the opportunity to do them justice last time you were here? A stroll about them should certainly prove of interest.”

Jason's lips twitched. “Undoubtedly,” he replied smoothly, “were you to accompany me.”

Trenchantly reminding herself that she was beyond being rattled by rakes, Lenore allowed distant regret to infuse her features. “I'm afraid my duties, as you call them, frequently keep me from my brothers' guests, Your Grace. However, I doubt my absence is noticed—my brothers' entertainments usually prove
remarkably
engrossing.”

Jason's eyes glinted; his lips curved. “I can assure you, Miss Lester, that I will certainly notice your absence. Furthermore, I can promise you that the distraction of your brothers' entertainments will be quite insufficient as recompense for the lack of your company. In fact,” he mused, one brow rising in open consideration, “I find it hard to imagine what power could deter me from seeking you out, in the circumstances.”

His words rang like a challenge, one Lenore was not at all sure she wished to face. But she was in no mood to permit any gentleman—not even one as notorious as Eversleigh—to disrupt her ordered life. Allowing her brows to rise in cool dismissal, she calmly stated, “I greatly fear, Your Grace, that I have never considered myself one of the amenities of Lester Hall. You will have to make shift with what comes more readily to hand.”

Unable to suppress a rakish grin at this forthright declaration, Jason brought his considerable charm to bear, softening his smile as he said, “I greatly fear you have misjudged me, Miss Lester.” His voice dropped in tone, a soothing rumble. “I would rather class you as one of the attractions of Lester Hall—the sort of attraction that is frequently seen but rarely appreciated.”

If it hadn't been for the odd intensity in his curious grey gaze, Lenore might have taken his words as nothing more than an elegant compliment. Instead, she felt shaken to the core. Her heart, for so long safe beneath her pinafore, thudded uncomfortably. With an enormous effort she dragged her eyes from his.

And spied Lord Percy Almsworthy doggedly pressing through the crowd. He fought free and gained the stairs. Lenore could have fallen on his thin chest with relief. “Lord Percy! How delightful to see you again.”

“Hello, hello,” replied his lordship, trying to sound cheery as he tweaked his wilting collars up around his chin. “Damned crush, what?”

“I'll get a footman to take you to your room immediately.” Lenore raised her hand, beckoning two footmen forward. “His Grace was just about to go up,” she lied, not daring to glance Eversleigh's way.

“The grey suite, I believe,” came a low murmur from her right. To her surprise, Lenore felt long fingers close about her hand. She swung to face him but, before she could do more than blink, His Grace of Eversleigh raised her fingers to his lips and brushed a light kiss across their sensitive tips.

Jason paused to savour the flush of awareness that rose to his hostess's cheeks and the stunned expression that invaded her eyes before reluctantly conceding, “Until later, Miss Lester.”

Skittering sensation prickled Lenore's skin. Rocked, she simply stared up at him. To her consternation, a subtle smile twisted his mobile lips before, with a polite nod, he released her hand and, moving past her, ascended the stairs in the footman's wake.

Speechless, Lenore turned to stare at his broad back, wishing she could have thought of some comment to wipe the smug smile from those silver eyes. Still, she reflected as her senses returned, at least he had gone.

Turning back to the hall, she was jolted from her daze by an aggrieved Lord Percy.

“Miss Lester—my room, if you please?”

“W
ELL
? H
OW LONG
do you plan to stay, now you've decided Miss Lester will not suit?”

Jason abandoned the view from his windows, his brows lifting in unfeigned surprise. “My dear Frederick, why the rush to so summarily dispense with Miss Lester?”

His expression bland, Frederick strolled forward to sit on the cushioned window seat. “Having known you since seducing the writing master's daughter was your primary aim in life, my imagination does not stretch the distance required to swallow the idea of your marrying a frump. As Lenore Lester is undeniably a frump, I rest my case. So, how soon can we leave without giving offence?”

Taking a seat opposite his friend, Jason looked thoughtful. “Her…er…frumpishness was a mite obvious, don't you think?”

“A matter beyond question,” Frederick assured him.

“Even, perhaps, a shade
too
obvious?”

Frederick frowned. “Jason—are you feeling quite the thing?”

Jason's grey eyes gleamed. “I'm exceedingly well and in full possession of my customary faculties. Such being the case, I am, of course, considerably intrigued by Miss Lester.”

“But…” Frederick stared. “Dash it—she wore a
pinafore
!”

Jason nodded. “And a gown of heavy cambric, despite the prevailing fashion for muslins. Not just frumpish, but determinedly so. It can hardly have been straightforward to get such unappealing apparel made. All that being so, what I want to know is why.”

“Why she's a frump?”

“Why Lenore Lester
wishes
to appear a frump. Not quite a disguise, for she does not go so far as to obliterate reality. However,” Jason mused, his gaze resting consideringly on Frederick, “obviously, she has gauged her intended audience well. From her confidence just now, I imagine she has succeeded thus far in convincing those who visit here that she is, indeed, as she appears.”

It was all too much for Frederick. “What makes you so sure she is
not
as she appears—a frump?”

Jason smiled, a wolf's smile. He shrugged. “How to explain? An aura? Her carriage?”

“
Carriage
?” Frederick considered, then waved the point aside. “I've heard my mother lecture m'sisters that carriage makes a lady. In my sisters' cases, it definitely hasn't helped.”

Jason gestured dismissively. “Whatever. Miss Lester may dress as she pleases but she cannot deceive me.”

His confidence set Frederick frowning. “What about those spectacles?”

“Plain glass.”

Frederick stared. “Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.” Jason's lips twisted wryly. “Hence, dear Frederick, there is no viable conclusion other than that Lenore Lester is intent on pulling the wool over our collective eyes.
If
you can disregard the impression her appearance invokes, then you would see, as I did—and doubtless Aunt Agatha before me—that beneath the rags lies a jewel. Not a diamond of the first water, I'll grant you, but a jewel none the less. There is no reason Lenore Lester needs must wear her hair in a prim bun, nor, I'll lay any odds, does she need to wear heavy gowns and a pinafore. They are merely distractions.”

“But…why?”

“Precisely my question.” Determination gleamed in His Grace of Eversleigh's grey eyes. “I greatly fear, Frederick, that you will indeed have to brave the trials and tribulations of a full week of Jack and Harry's ‘entertainments'. For we are certainly not leaving before I discover just what Lenore Lester is hiding. And why.”

 

N
INETY MINUTES
later, the hum of drawing-room conversation filling his ears, Jason studied the gown his hostess had donned for the evening with a certain degree of respect. She had entered quietly and stood, calmly scanning the throng. He waited until she was about to plunge into the mêlée before strolling to her elbow.

“Miss Lester.”

Lenore froze, then, slowly, using the time to draw her defences about her, turned to face him. Her mask firmly in place, she held out her hand. “Good evening, Your Grace. I trust you found your rooms adequate?”

“Perfectly, thank you.” Straightening from his bow, Jason moved closer, trapping her peridot gaze in his.

The facile words of glib conversation which should have flowed easily from Lenore's socially experienced tongue evaporated. Dimly, she wondered why Eversleigh's silver gaze should have such a mind-numbing effect on her. Then his gaze shifted, swiftly skimming her shoulders before returning to her face. He smiled, slowly. Lenore felt a peculiar tingling warmth suffuse her.

Jason allowed one brow to rise. “Permit me to compliment you on your gown, Miss Lester. I have not previously seen anything quite like it.”

“Oh?” Alarm bells rang in Lenore's brain. Impossible not to acknowledge that her novel creation—a silk chemisette, buttoned high at the neck with long buttoned sleeves attached, worn beneath her version of a lustring sack, appropriately named as it fell in copious folds from a gathered yoke above her breasts to where the material was drawn in about her knees before flaring out to conceal her ankles—was in marked contrast to the filmy muslin or silk evening gowns of her contemporaries, cut revealingly low and gathered snugly beneath their breasts the better to display their figures. Indeed, her gown was expressly designed to serve a diametrically opposed purpose. Eversleigh's allusion, thrown at her on the heels of his unnerving smile, confirmed her dread that, unlike the rest of the company, he had failed to fall victim to her particular snare. Disconcerted but determined not to show it, she tiled her chin, her eyes wide and innocent. “I'm afraid I have little time for London fripperies, Your Grace.”

A glint of appreciative amusement gleamed in the grey eyes holding hers.

“Strangely enough, it wasn't your
lack
of accoutrement that struck me.” Smoothly, Jason drew her hand through his arm. “If I was asked for my opinion, I would have to state that in your case, Miss Lester, my taste would run to less, rather than more.”

His tone, his expression, the inflection in his deep voice, all combined to assure Lenore that her worst fears had materialised. What mischievous fate, she wondered distractedly, had decreed that Eversleigh, of all men, should be the one to see beyond her purposely drab fa
de?

Deciding that retreat was the only way forward, she dropped her gaze. “I fear I must attend my father, Your Grace. If you'll excuse me?”

“I have yet to pay my respects to your father, Miss Lester, and should like to do so. I'll take you to him, if you'll permit it?”

Lenore hesitated, fingers twisting the long chain about her neck from which depended a pair of redundant lorgnettes. There was no real reason to refuse Eversleigh's escort and she was loath to cry coward so readily. After all, what could he do in the middle of the drawing-room? She looked up, into his eyes. “I believe we will find my father by the fireplace, Your Grace.”

She was treated to a charming smile. With intimidating ease, Eversleigh steered her through the noisy crowd to where her father was seated in a Bath chair before the large hearth, one gouty foot propped on a stool before him.

“Papa.” Lenore bent to plant a dutiful kiss on her father's lined cheek.

The Honourable Archibald Lester humphed. “'Bout time. Bit late tonight, aren't you? What happened? One of those lightskirts try to tumble Smithers?”

Inured to her father's outrageous remarks, Lenore stooped to tuck in a stray end of the blanket draped over his knees. “Of course not, Papa. I was merely delayed.”

Jason had noted how Mr. Lester's restless gaze had fastened on his daughter the instant she had come into view. He watched as the old man's washed-out blue eyes scanned Lenore's face before peering up at him aggressively from under shaggy white brows.

Before her father could bark out some less than gracious query, Lenore stepped in. “Allow me to make known to you His Grace of Eversleigh, Papa.”

Mr. Lester's steady gaze did not waver. If anything, it intensified. A sardonic gleam in his eye, Jason bowed gracefully, then accepted the hand the old man held out.

“Haven't seen you in some years, I think,” Mr. Lester remarked. “Knew your father well—you're becoming more like him with the years—in all respects, from everything I hear.”

Standing beside her father's chair, Lenore studiously kept her eyes blank.

Jason inclined his head. “So I have been informed.”

Mr. Lester's head sank. For a moment, he appeared lost in memories. Then he snorted. Lifting his head, he looked out across the crowded room. “Remember being in Paris one year your father was there. Group of us, him included, spent quite a bit of time together. Had a rousing six months—the Parisian
mesdames
—now
there
were women who knew how to heat a man's blood.” With a contemptuous wave, he indicated the press of bodies before him. “This lot's got no idea. You—m'boys—don't know what you're missing.”

Jason's smile grew harder to suppress. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lenore colour delicately. In his own best interests, he decided to forgo encouraging Mr. Lester to recount his memories in more detail. “Unfortunately, I believe Napoleon's comrades have altered things somewhat since you were last in France, sir.”

“Damned upstart!” Mr. Lester ruminated on the emperor's shortcomings for some seconds before observing, “Still—the war's over. Ever think of chancing the Channel to savour the delights of
la bonne vie
, heh?”

At that, Jason smiled. “My tastes, I fear, are distinctly English, sir.” As if to include Lenore in their discussion, he allowed his gaze to rise, capturing her eyes with his before adding with calm deliberation, “Besides, I have a particular project before me which bodes fair to absorbing my complete attention for the foreseeable future.”

Despite the quake that inwardly shook her, Lenore kept her gaze steady and her expression serene. Favouring attack as the best form of defence, she countered, “Indeed, Your Grace? And what project is that?”

She had thought to rattle him; although his features remained serious, his expressive eyes warned her she had seriously underestimated him.

“I find myself faced with a conundrum, Miss Lester. A conclusion which, while apparently consistent with the facts, I know to be false.”

Mr. Lester snorted. “Sounds just like the musty old theories you so delight in, m'dear. You should give His Grace a hand.”

Speechless, Lenore looked up, straight into Eversleigh's gleaming grey eyes.

“An excellent idea.” Jason could not resist a small smile of triumph.

To Lenore, the gesture revealed far too many teeth. Eversleigh was dangerous. His reputation painted him in the most definite colours—those of a highly successful rake. “I really don't believe—”

Her careful retreat was cut off by Smithers, announcing in booming accents that dinner was served.

Lenore blinked, then saw a slow smile light Eversleigh's fascinating features. He had scanned the crowd and now stood, watching her expectantly. Reality hit Lenore like a wave. Eversleigh was the senior peer present. As his hostess, it was incumbent upon her to lead the assembled company in to dinner—on his arm. Aware that, at any moment, the restive crowd would work all this out for themselves and turn to see her, dithering, beside her father's chair, Lenore resisted the temptation to close her eyes in frustration. Instead, her serene mask firmly in place, she walked into the wolf's lair. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm, Your Grace?”

She was hardly surprised when he promptly obliged. Harris, the footman, arrived to propel her father's chair. Testily the old man waved them on. “Let's get going! I'm hungry.”

Yielding to the slightest of pressures, Lenore allowed Eversleigh to lead her towards the door.

Appreciatively viewing the regal tilt of his hostess' golden head as she glided beside him through the waiting throng, her small hand resting lightly on his sleeve, Jason waited until they had reached the relative quiet of the hall before murmuring, “As I was saying, Miss Lester, I have become fascinated by an instance of what I believe might best be described as artful deceit.”

Lenore was having none of it. “Artful deceit, Your Grace? To what purpose, pray?”

“As to purpose, I am not at all sure, but I intend to find out, Miss Lester.”

Lenore risked an upward glance, insensibly annoyed at the feeling of smallness that engulfed her. She was used to dealing with gentlemen eye to eye; Eversleigh's height gave him an unfair advantage. But she was determined to end his little game. Elevating her chin, she adopted her most superior tone. “Indeed, Your Grace? And just how do you propose to unravel this conundrum of yours, laying all bare?”

Even as the words left her tongue, Lenore closed her eyes, stifling a groan. Where had her wits gone begging? Then her eyes flew open, her gaze flying, in considerable trepidation, to Eversleigh's hard countenance. Any hope that he would not take advantage was wiped from her mind the instant her eyes met his. Silver gleamed in the grey, white fire under water.