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Authors: Joan Vincent

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BOOK: The Curious Rogue
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Her brother’s capture off Brest by the French navy intensified her opinion. She blamed her father’s death on the resultant heartache and worry. Elizabeth had hardened her heart further, becoming unrelenting in her prejudice, despite her uncle’s entreaties to be reasonable.

“Let’s have none of your nonsense about the loyalists,

Sir Henry reminded her. “Madeline will probably bring a few with her.

“Remember Morton’s last letter? How he told about the man who was giving him food and wine? What of those who smuggle his letters to the coast for us?”

“They do it only for the money it gains them. That is the sole reason. If they did not help his letters, you could not send him money—money which they take. A Frenchman would never do anything for anyone without being paid,” she ended adamantly.

“Elizabeth, you are showing an absurdly ignorant streak.” Her uncle shook a finger at her. “I prided myself on thinking you had better judgment than you are now showing. Just as all Englishmen are not good, all Frenchmen are not bad.”

“That has not been proven to me,” his niece insisted stubbornly.

He shook his head regretfully, for he regarded this unquestioning condemnation as most unfortunate. His fork halted halfway to his mouth, a sudden recollection of Niles’ comment coming to mind.

“What did happen on your journey?”

Colour surged to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “It was nothing,” she said, attacking the beef on her plate.

“Come now, you wouldn’t blush so....
Certes
you were not robbed?”

“No, Uncle. A man simply bolted into the coach as we were leaving Folkestone,” she said, dismissing the incident.

“A stranger? What was his name? I’m surprised that Brown allowed it. He knows I dislike your travelling unchaperoned. I must speak with him....”

“Brown knew nothing about it,” Elizabeth defended the coachman. “The man simply climbed in when we slowed to round a corner. You don’t know him and neither do I. He was being chased by the king’s men and used your coach to escape them. I don’t wish to discuss this any further,” she ended, and rose. Throwing her napkin onto the table, Elizabeth strode from the room without a further word or look.

Sir Henry stared after her. Even the royalists had never elicited such a strong reaction in her.
Perhaps this man is the one I should he searching for instead of that new barrister
, he thought. If only his name could be learned.

“I would give much to meet a man that could unsettle Elizabeth,” Sir Henry mused aloud. “He must have been a most curious rogue.”

 

Chapter Three

 

The tall, dark man drew his cloak tightly about him as his hired hack plodded through a field near Ashford. Finding his thoughts more melancholy than usual, he reminded himself of the success he had had in his mission and of the little Parisian wench who had entertained him so well.

But when he tried to picture her, there came instead the vision of the young miss whose coach he had left but hours before.

Likely safe at her uncle’s now,
he thought and grinned remembering how she had tried to take his pistol.
Plenty of spirit there.
He straightened as an idea struck.

“It would be best if we got to London as quickly as possible,” he told the hired beast, “but then I’ve seldom done what is wisest.” He turned the steed towards Ashford and urged him to a gallop.

Halting before the Crown and Sword, an inn on the outskirts of town, the man lithely stepped down and drew off his cloak. After tying it behind the saddle, he strode inside and tossed a coin carelessly upon the bar.

The proprietor’s pudgy, dirt-stained hand closed over it, a toothless smile his greeting. “Take a seat, sir. I’ll fetch ye a pint o’ ale.” He drew a mug of rich, warm ale and carried it to the table.

“Be ye travellin’ to London?” he asked, setting the mug down with a splattering jolt.

“Perhaps.” The dark eyes forced the innkeeper to drop his gaze.

“Ye look worn,” the fat man mumbled. He rubbed his dirty hands on his equally filthy apron. “Thought ye might want a room.”

“You have a magistrate in Ashford?” The man’s gaze did not waver.

“Magistrates all about England,” the innkeeper answered, unsettled by the light in the stranger’s eye. “What need ye be havin’ with a magistrate?”

“His name?” the other commanded.

The innkeeper debated his answer, then stiffened as the man leaned back in his chair. He watched the man’s hand come to rest near the butt of a pistol in his waistband. “Jeffries it be, sir. Sir Henry Jeffries. I best be about me duties,” he added and began to edge away from the table.

“Does he have a niece?”

“I’ve heard tell he does,” the innkeeper answered slowly.

“Do you know her name?”

“Seems me heard tell o’ it... but then his lordship be a mite above me an’ we don’t deal together, common like.” He rubbed his double chin.

A coin appeared as if by magic in the dark man’s hand. He flipped it to the innkeeper.

“‘Lizabeth, sir. Miss ‘Lizabeth Jeffries.” The man beamed greedily. “There he more ye wish to be knowin’?” he asked hopefully.

“Bring me bread and cheese,” the other commanded coldly, his face impassive.

With a regretful grimace, the innkeeper turned away.

What a fool you are, the man condemned himself. He ran a hand slowly through his thick coal-black hair. Exposing yourself needlessly to learn a chit’s name, and it being Elizabeth at that.

A strong proud name just like the lady.
The innkeeper’s return interrupted his thought. He hungrily devoured the cheese and bread. Finished, he quaffed the last of his ale, and after placing coins on the table, strode from the inn. Outside he swung easily into the saddle and spurred away.

 “That be a most curious sort,” the innkeeper mumbled as he scraped crumbs from the table onto the litter-covered floor.
Wonder if Sir Henry be interested in knowin’ the like o’ that sort are askin’ after his niece?

The thought was still on the man’s mind a short time later when five soldiers entered the inn.

After ordering ale, the sergeant asked, “Have ye seen the like o’ a tall, dark man? A mean look he has and likely carryin’ a pistol. He would have come by way of Folkestone.”

“With hair as black as the devil’s stone?” the innkeeper asked.

“Aye, an’ eyes that match it.”

“Who be he?”

“By name, Martin. He moves back an’ forth ‘tween here and France like there ‘twasn’t no war. But he went too far when he threw Lord Fromby into the Channel. His lordship’s set a fire to the tail on them in London, and we’ve ten score men sent to capture him.”

“Ten score... all fer one man?” the other questioned sceptically.

“‘Tis the country’s honour at stake to hear his lordship,” the sergeant returned, thumping his hand upon the counter.

“What did ye say this Martin did to Lord—”

“Fromby was bein’ patriotic like an’ gettin’ information on some smugglers, so he says, when this Martin came and ‘umiliated him. Pulled his fancy wig off.” He winked.

“His lordship be balder ‘n a hen’s egg, so it’s told since. Then the bloke threw him over the side.” The sergeant ended there, thinking it imprudent to add that his lordship had been in the company of some ladies of doubtful reputation who had preferred the assailant. Nor did he think it wise to mention that tattle in the barracks had it that Lord Fromby, for all the personal insult he had suffered, was more likely angered because the man had also made off with his ship and the cargo his lordship had arranged to be smuggled in.

“Have ye seen the man?” he asked again, his ale finished.

“Aye, not two hours past. Headin’ fer London he likely were.”

“If ye see him again, send word to Colonel Trumbel at Dover. Lord Frombv’s puttin’ a large sum of guineas to the man responsible for catchin’ him.”

* * * *

His third rented hack of the day was well lathered by the time Martin reached London. He had gone over six and thirty hours without sleep. Instead of reining his tired steed towards his quarters, he made for a house on the edge of Mayfair which he had rented for a young lady with whom he had an amicable agreement.

Discontent had lain heavily upon Martin all day and pressed him harder as he neared his destination. Even memories of Teresa’s softly curved body and willing ways could not dispel this vague but stubborn dissatisfaction.

Entering the house by the back door, Martin took the main staircase two steps at a time and strode purposefully down the corridor towards the master bedchamber.

The powdered and painted demirep seated before the dressing table saw his image in her mirror. “Martin!” she squeaked in a strangled voice,

“I did not mean to frighten you, my dear,” he said as he joined her and twined a curl about his finger. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“But of course, my darling,” she said in an altered tone, her nervousness not quite concealed. “Why do you look at me so strangely?” Teresa managed a gurgling laugh as she rose and turned towards him.

“Is something wrong? But you tease me, that is it. You have been gone so long. What did you bring me?” An avaricious gleam entered her eyes. Pausing, she deftly arched her back and raised a shoulder slightly so he could see the fullness of her breasts beneath her sheer dressing gown. She swayed enticingly, a beguiling smile upon her lips.

“You are happy to see me?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck. “What did you bring me?” Her hands softly ruffled his black mane as his lips brushed hers.

Martin tightened his hands about her waist. He pressed her away as he gazed at her powdered and rouged face, her eyes closed, lips awaiting him. A question appeared on his features. He hesitated only a moment before he pushed aside all doubt and fiercely claimed her lips.

Drawing back later, Martin felt a faint disappointment, which he carefully concealed. Before he could speak, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

“Teresa,” a plaintive male voice called.

The woman in his arms gulped as Martin lifted an eyebrow disdainfully. “I
have
been gone a long time,” he noted as he slowly released her.

“He don’t mean nothing to me, Martin, truly. I was just lonely,” Teresa whined.

“I’ll send a settlement, my dear,” he told her as he walked to the door.

“You were gone so long...”

“You shall have no problem finding another protector, dear girl. Your ways are quite winning.”
If you could but control your greed,
he thought.
It proved a common flaw in women all too oft.

“Come in,” he said evenly, opening the door and greeting a startled young man. “The lady and I are finished,” he noted, and walked down the corridor, his back straight, his head up, his eyes and ears closed to the epitaphs being hurled at him by his once adoring mistress.

In the street Martin mounted and prodded his beast to a trot. Achieving Piccadilly and Berkeley, he paid a beggar lad to take the horse to the nearest coaching yard. He also gave instructions and coin for its return to its owner. This done, he fled into the darkness, moving swiftly and silently among the alleyways.

Entering a second house through the servants’ entrance, Martin unlocked another door just inside that entry, stepped into the small closet behind it, and relocked the door. The false back of the closet was opened and the upper floor reached through a secret passageway with ease gained from long practice. At the end of the corridor Martin released the lever on the false panel and eased his tall form through the small opening into a darkened room. In the shrouding darkness he stripped to the buff and tossed his clothing back into the secret corridor. By counting his steps he safely reached a large bed and pulled on the long, flowing robe which was lying on it.

Martin moved to the bedside table and lit the candle upon it, then moved about the room lighting the lamps and wall sconces. The large bedchamber thus revealed seemed at odds with the tall, muscular man.

The fine oak panels covering the walls had been bleached and were etched with delicate tracings of flowers and vines which had been painted in delicate shades. Louis Quatorze furniture, with its dainty, ornate lines, contrasted sharply with the broad-shouldered and strong-featured man. Voluptuous nude maidens of sixteenth-century Venice painted by Sebastiano del Piombo adorned the two panels on either side of the fireplace. The damask drapes covering the large window on the west wall were edged in delicate French lace. An ornate, lacquered shaving stand was the only piece of obviously masculine furniture in the room, and it, too, was copiously decorated with a feminine touch.

Standing before a full-length mirror framed by rococo ormolu mounts, the tall man gazed at his reflection. The full wine-coloured gown had been cut in such a way that it diminished the broadness of his shoulders and de-emphasized his above-average height.

As he gazed, he managed a gradual transformation. One shoulder dropped slightly as he tilted his head to one side. The strong lines of his features faded; his mouth assumed a pursed look and twitched at one side. Powder and rouge he skilfully applied. Sauntering to a chair by the fire in a light, tripping step after he finished, the man pulled the bell cord before sitting.

A timid knock soon sounded upon the door, followed by a nervous, “
Monseigneur le
Comte, we did not know you had returned from Oatlands. Please forgive me for not coming sooner.”

“It is of no import. I must bathe immediately. You know I cannot abide the filth encountered in others’ homes. Lady York is a dear, but her dogs. La, one trips over them everywhere. I don’t know why Brummell is such an eager guest there.

“My water now—at once. Come, come, we must hurry.” The man in the chair by the fireplace wearily fluttered a lace kerchief in dismissal.

Mr. Leveque closed the door quietly. He had been in this establishment but a year and still found it difficult to serve his master. “How did the comte enter?” the butler muttered as he hurried to order the water taken to the bedchamber.

Best not to ponder it
, he reprimanded himself. The Comte
de Cavilon was known to be curious in his habits and to dismiss anyone who questioned anything.

BOOK: The Curious Rogue
9.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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