Back in Your Arms Page 3

  “She’d probably marry you, Ramsfield,” Pommeroy said, still sulking. “You’ll be the Marquess of Gladwell one day.”

  “The old man would have a seizure if I even considered it,” Ramsfield snorted. “Julia Fleming is nothing.” Then his expression changed and his lips turned up in a lascivious grin. “But by God, I understand why you would want her. Those eyes. That skin. That body. A man would be an idiot not to want to bed her. Can’t you imagine those long legs wrapped around you while you bury your cock inside—”

  Rage propelled Gareth across the verandah in four long strides. Two of the men saw his approach and hurtled away just as he grabbed Ramsfield’s shoulder, spun him around and slammed his knee into the man’s groin. With a muffled curse, Ramsfield sank to the ground, clutching the injured region and curling into a ball. Using his boot as leverage, Gareth turned him over, placed a foot against his chest and pressed him into the ground.

  “If I ever hear you speak of Lady Fleming in that manner again, I will cut off your ballocks and hang them from your shoulders,” he snarled. “I might be tempted to blow your brains out if I had a pistol with me, but I don’t believe in wasting powder. Lady Pettigrew is my friend and I will not have her party ruined by you insulting one of her friends. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Ramsfield gasped.

  “Good,” Gareth said grimly. “Now, you will give me the name of the young lady you insulted earlier. The one you say has nothing between her ears.”

  “I don’t have to tell—”

  Gareth removed his foot to lean down and yank Ramsfield up by the collar and hold him aloft. “Oh, yes you do,” he said, pressing his thumbs against Ramsfield’s windpipe with calculated slowness. “Or I will personally disembowel you with the knife I have in my boot. Whoever she is, she does not deserve your rancor or cruelty. Her name, if you value your sorry life.”

  “Lady Ernestina Graham,” Ramsfield squeaked, his feet flailing in the air. “The Earl of Lowe’s daughter.”

  The young lady Gareth had danced with earlier. Not the prettiest in the room, but pleasing enough in appearance with a gentle manner, not a scrap of pretense and possessed of far more intelligence than the man who insulted her. “Have you offered for her?” Gareth asked.

  “N-n-no.”

  “Then you will not,” Gareth ordered. “Not if you wish to remain among the living. Is that understood?”

  “Yes!” Ramsfield croaked out his promise.

  “Excellent,” Gareth confirmed with a nod. “Now you are going to leave. I’ll make your apologies to Lady Pettigrew, who will not be too upset when you decline all future invitations from her. Affairs call you away.” He pressed Ramsfield’s windpipe again. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes!”

  “It would help if you put him down,” a new voice commented.

  Gareth turned his head and saw a slender man with an eye patch and cane watching from the shadows. Despite the exquisite tailoring, his evening clothes could not hide the form made too thin by battlefield injury and lingering illness. Major William Hampson, baronet, his Army friend and Constance Pettigrew’s brother.

  “Put him down, Gareth,” William repeated. “The sooner he’s gone, the better.”

  “Very well.” Gareth stepped back as he dropped Ramsfield into a convenient mud puddle. A satisfying splash covered the man’s backside with mud.

  Scrambling to his feet, his face screwed into a mask of petulant fury, Ramsfield snarled, “I don’t know who you are, but my father is the Marquess of—”

  “He’s the Duke of Harrow, you fool,” William said, coming forward. “One of Wellington’s best officers or hadn’t you heard?”

  “Harrow?” Ramsfield’s voice rose. “I didn’t know he—”

  “Was in attendance tonight? But of course, you were too busy losing in the card room to notice the other guests,” William mocked. “Yes, the Duke of Harrow. It would be wise for you to follow his advice and leave London tonight.”

  “Now see here—” Ramsfield made a last attempt at protest.

  William came forward to stand an arm’s length before him. In the flickering candlelight there was no mistaking the patch covering his left eye. The other men exchanged embarrassed glances. They needed no reminder of William’s own feat of freeing a group of British prisoners from the French with just a handful of men. An exploit that raised his rank to major and cost him his eye.

  Raising his cane, William pointed it at Ramsfield’s chest. “Leave now or I’ll let Harrow do his worst.” His sudden smile resembled nothing so much as a hungry tiger. “Or I can let your father know of your suspected cheating at cards at White’s.”

  He turned his head so his one eye glittered at Ramsfield’s cronies. “You should leave as well. And I would advise you to keep this incident to yourselves.”

  “Of course,” one of the men said hastily.

  “And you, Pommeroy,” William continued. “If I hear word of you insulting Lady Fleming or even mentioning her name, I’ll call you out myself. One-eyed men can still be very good with pistols and I’ve had lots of time to practice since my return from the front.”

  “Of-of-of course.” Pommeroy’s head wobbled in agreement.

  “Come on, Ramsfield. Let’s get you out of here before you have us all emasculated and ruined,” one of his friends said. They pulled him into the darkness of the garden, followed by a stumbling Pommeroy while the other men quickly returned to the ballroom, closing the doors on the sounds of music and shuffling feet. Gareth stalked back to the candelabra and took out another cheroot, lit it and inhaled. Odd it did not taste as pleasing as before.

  “You make an impressive knight in shining armor,” William observed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gareth expelled his reply along with a long stream of smoke.

  William laughed softly as he joined Gareth, his cane tapping quietly on the paved surface. “You always were a rotten liar,” he said. “But you can relax. Lady Fleming is gone.”

  “What could possibly have taken one of London’s most popular hostesses away from such a splendid evening?” Gareth asked sarcastically. “An admirer, perhaps?”

  “An emergency at her home required her departure.”

  The cheroot snapped between Gareth’s fingers and he tossed it aside. “Her sister—”

  “I don’t think so.” Dislike pulled William’s mouth into a frown. “Her father arrived unannounced from the country.”

  “Her father?” Gareth repeated, staring at his friend’s face. The scar inflicted by a saber cut had nearly faded, but sometimes, when William was angered or annoyed, it stood out, as it did now. He was the bravest man Gareth knew and he silently cursed Katherine Holland, the woman who upon seeing William’s face after his return from the front broke their engagement. William deserved happiness as much as any man in London and in Gareth’s opinion, he was well rid of the socially ambitious Katherine.

  “Yes,” William said. “Who knows what the old scoundrel wants? But she’s gone. If you’ve no other plans, can I challenge you to a game of chess in your rooms at Rochester’s?”

  “That sounds splendid.” Gareth welcomed the excuse to leave. Perhaps trying to best William’s superior skills would drive any thought of Julia Fleming from his mind. But he doubted it.

  Chapter Five

  “God, what time is it?” Gareth groaned, squinting at the sunlight pouring into his room as his valet Taggert opened the drapes.

  “Nearly eight o’clock, Your Grace,” Taggert said.

  “Eight? What in hell—”

  “We’re going riding in Hyde Park this morning, remember?” William called from a chair.

  “Riding?” Gareth propped himself up on his elbows. “Whose damn idea was it to go riding?”

  “Yours,” William told him. “You were quite adamant about it, which is the only reason I’m here this early in the morning. Taggert, would you bring in His Grace’s breakfast, please?”

&nbs
p; “Very good, Sir William.” Taggert said. “Breakfast for you as well?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s too early in the day to think about food,” Gareth growled, as Taggert left the room. “It’s too early in the day to think about anything.”

  “I suppose it is, considering you didn’t go to bed until after three,” William agreed cheerfully. “Do you have a hangover?”

  “Yes, damn it all.” Gareth sat up and rubbed his temples. “How much did I drink last night?”

  William steepled his fingers. “You consumed most of two bottles of Rochester’s finest cognac,” he said. “It loosened your tongue considerably.”

  Glaring at William only made Gareth’s head ache worse. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “From the middle of the first bottle, your entire conversation was about Julia Heaton.”

  “Fleming,” Gareth corrected. The word added to the bitter taste in his mouth. “Her name is Fleming.”

  “You called her Heaton,” William said softly. “After all this time, you still love her. She loved you too, as I recall.”

  Gareth knotted the bedclothes between his hands. “She had an odd way of showing it. She played me for the fool, waiting until we went to London for the special license to run off and marry Fleming.”

  “I always thought there was something odd about that,” William said. “That business with the note she gave that vicar—”

  “I don’t give a damn about Julia Heaton or Fleming or whatever she calls herself,” Gareth said between clenched teeth. “She’s nothing to me.”

  “Of course not,” William agreed. “That’s why you threatened Ramsfield with emasculation. After all, she’s just a woman, which is what I believe you kept saying last night. But now that you are the Duke of Harrow, you have all of female London at your feet.”

  “Is there a point to this conversation?” Gareth snapped.

  “No.” William gave his tiger’s smile. “None at all.”

  Taggert returned with a tray holding coffee, a rack of toast and a large glass tumbler, filled with a brown liquid. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing ‘The Remedy’ for Your Grace,” he said, putting the tray across Gareth’s lap.

  “If you ever sold the recipe for ‘The Remedy’, you would be a rich man, Taggert,” William said. “My valet’s attempt to duplicate it was an abysmal failure.”

  “It’s an old family secret, Sir William,” Taggert intoned. “And therefore not to be shared or sold.”

  Gareth drained the tumbler and set it down. “You’re always prepared, aren’t you, Taggert?”

  “That’s why Your Grace pays me,” Taggert acknowledged, inclining his head.

  “I’ll just go see to the horses,” William said. “Will it take you more than half the day to ready yourself?”

  “I’ll meet you in an hour,” Gareth promised, giving his attention to the toast.

  “An hour,” William agreed as he stood and moved toward the door. There he stopped and turned. “Oh, and we’re dining at Connie’s at one o’clock this afternoon,” he called. “So do try to save your appetite.”

  “Did you enjoy your evening at Lady Pettigrew’s, Your Grace?” Taggert asked as William stepped from the room and closed the door.

  “Not really.”

  You may have changed, Your Grace, but London has not.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace,” Taggert said smoothly. “One would think you would have received a royal welcome. Lady Pettigrew’s parties are usually lively occasions, as I recall, attended by some of the best of beauties of the ton.”

  Gareth reached for his coffee cup. “I didn’t notice.”

  Here a lady is still lady, even if she is a solitary widow.

  “Of course you didn’t, Your Grace. And Napoleon was victorious at Waterloo.”

  The sarcasm lacing his valet’s voice directed Gareth’s gaze to the man’s face. Taggert’s expression showed nothing but its usual impassivity. Only the glitter in his eyes showed he guessed the truth. “Is it that apparent?”

  “I have found, Your Grace, when a man protests that nothing bothers him, he is usually troubled indeed.”

  You seem to have left your manners on the battlefield.

  Gareth put down his cup. “Taggert, I need you to do something for me, please.”

  “I am, of course, at Your Grace’s disposal.”

  “I want you to send the boot boy to the nearest florist and arrange to have a dozen yellow roses delivered.”

  “Yes sir.” Taggert removed the tray. “Is there a message?”

  “I’ll have the boy take one of my cards. And Taggert?”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  Good luck with your hunting. I think you’re going to need it.

  “Tell the boy to hurry.”

  * * * * *

  “But Papa, I don’t wish to marry Viscount Clayton!” Lucy Heaton’s wail cut through the parlor like shards of broken glass.

  “Don’t be stupid, girl,” George Heaton retorted. “You’ll do as you’re told. Bartholomew Clayton is rich. And don’t think I’ve not heard about that young pup James Conrad making sheep’s eyes at you. Lady Rorem keeps me informed of what’s going on when I’m not in town. I’d no more let Conrad offer for you than I could fly. He’s nearly as poor as a church mouse.”

  Scowling, he pointed at Julia. “This is your fault, Julia. As Lucy’s chaperone, you should have done a better job of keeping penniless suitors from sniffing around her skirts.”

  “Papa, this is outrageous.” Julia clutched her cup to keep from throwing it at his head. “You’ve no right to marry Lucy off like a cart of goods.”

  And I’m going to find a way to make Beatrice Rorem pay for spying on Lucy, that old battleaxe. She’s still angry at me for comparing her daughter’s abysmal singing to alley cats mating. And that’s an insult to the cats.

  Heaton’s fist hitting the table rattled the breakfast plates. “I’m her father and I can do what I think is in her best interest!”

  “You mean your best interest,” Julia corrected. “What about Lucy’s happiness? And even if Mr. Conrad does have a tendre for her, she’s only been out since this spring. She needs to enjoy her first year and deserves the chance to meet men her own age.” She inwardly recoiled at the thought of Lucy wed to the ancient, doddering Clayton, easily three times her sister’s age.

  “If you had done your duty, Julia, and given Fleming an heir, he would have left you everything,” Heaton complained.

  “But at least I have made good use of the money Thomas gives me,” Julia retorted. “And I wonder what the ton would say if they knew that it’s my money that helps you pay some of your gambling debts. That must have been what brought you to London at this time of year. How much have you lost this time?”

  “Now see here—” Heaton’s face turned a most satisfying shade of purple.

  Julia silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Never mind. Send me your notes and I’ll see what I can do. But it will be the last time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Heaton demanded.

  “That from now on, you can ask your future son-in-law to help settle your debts.” Cup in hand, Julia rose and went to the sideboard. Her threat to tell Society of her assistance to him usually kept him in place and out of her way. A man could gamble and carouse as much as he liked, but it was definitely not good ton to have your widowed daughter pay your debts.

  “You’re just like your mother was—willful and defiant. You can’t talk to me that way!” Heaton shouted. “I’m still your father.”

  Julia kept her back to him as she considered another cup of coffee. “A lesson that has served me well since you sold me to Charles Fleming eight years ago.” Turning, she added, “I do not remember inviting you to call on me. I gave you a place to stay last night only because you were too drunk to be seen in public. Please send word if you wish to call again. I’m not sure if I will be home to you or not.”

  An
ugly sneer crossed Heaton’s face. “Very well,” he said. “But as for you, my fine young miss,” he pointed at Lucy. “You’re still under my control and you’ll marry Viscount Clayton just as soon as his gout subsides and we finish making the final arrangements. And there’s nothing your sister can do about it.”

  He stormed from the room, slamming the door. Lucy burst into tears and Julia hurried back to the table. She moved her chair next to her sister and took her into her arms. “Don’t cry, dearest,” she soothed. “Please don’t cry.”

  Lucy trembled against her. “D-do I h-have to m-marry Viscount Clayton?”

  “No,” Julia vowed. “I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way to stop Papa. You shall only marry whom you want, when you want. I promise.”

  Lucy sat back and gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, Julia.” Sniffing, she took a napkin and blotted her face “What did you mean about Papa selling you to Sir Charles?”

  “A figure of speech, but one with a ring of coin to it.” The old bitterness twisted Julia’s heart. “Papa paid the dowry Charles asked for without question, hoping Charles would help him out with his bills. He’d already obtained the special license. I had no choice.”

  “But Sir Charles was twice your age.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “And you were the toast of the ton that year. I remember. You could have married anyone.”

  “Not after Papa and Charles made their agreement.”

  Julia pushed aside the crowding thoughts of old, remembered dreams. What might have been was undone by Gareth’s betrayal on a moonlit balcony.

  Tears threatened to spill from Lucy’s eyes again.

  “Shall I have to go live with Papa until the wedding?”

  “You’ve been living with me since Charles died,” Julia said. “If you went back to live with Papa, he would have to start paying your expenses again, and he’s far too selfish for that.”

  Lucy’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you, Julia,” she said again. “I’d miss living with you all this time.”