An Unexpected Gentleman (20 page)

“I’m scared all the time.”

“Well.” She gave Adelaide two soft pats. “I never said you were confident. I said you were courageous.”

Adelaide smiled, then winced when her cheek protested.

Isobel returned her attention to the pearl handle. “I’m sorry I made you take the gun.”

She made a soothing noise. “It’s all right, Isobel. You—”

“It’s not. It’s not right that you should have to make all the decisions. I’ll try to be more helpful in the future.”

“I’d like that.”

“May I start now? Excellent. I have decided you shall not marry Sir Robert.” Isobel shook her head, her blue eyes filled with wonder. “I have
never
seen you so angry.”

“I’ve never been so angry.” Adelaide blew out a long breath. “I’d have shot him, Isobel, and that’s the truth of—”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

She frowned, a little insulted. “I most certainly would—”

“The pistol’s not loaded.”

“What?”
She snatched the gun away, checked for herself, and saw there was no shot or powder. “Did you know that when you handed it to me?”

Isobel shook her head. “I didn’t think of it. I forgot we’d unloaded it when—”

“When I’d thought to sell it,” Adelaide finished for her, remembering. Worried two women living alone might have need of protection, she’d changed her mind and sold their mother’s emerald earrings—the last of her jewelry—instead. “What would we have done if he’d charged?”

Isobel produced a hopeful smile. “Swung hard?”

Adelaide snorted. “You tried that.”

“I didn’t. That is . . . I didn’t swing as hard as I could. I meant to, but then I panicked and—”

“You hit him hard enough. You saved me. Thank you.”

Isobel shrugged as if mildly embarrassed. “What will you do now? Even a baron is not allowed to assault a woman in her own home.”

Not allowed and susceptible to the consequences were two different matters. She could go to the authorities, press charges, but nothing would come of it but a public trial in which a dozen character witnesses would pronounce Sir Robert the most honorable of barons, and she a common woman who’d been caught cavorting with a criminal at a house party.

Knowing inaction would frustrate Isobel, Adelaide skirted the question. “I’ll think on it. For now—”

She broke off at the unmistakable whoosh and thump of George sliding down the steps on his backside.

With a smothered oath, Adelaide scrambled to her feet and rushed into the great hall. She found George a quarter way down the steps.

Had he not fallen asleep straightaway, after all? Had the noise woken him? Had he seen . . . Surely not. Surely he would have made his presence known before now. And he didn’t look upset or frightened. He looked fascinated, his wide blue eyes scanning the wreckage of the room.

“Naughty. No, no.”

Behind her, Isobel laughed softly. “From the mouths of babes.”

Adelaide climbed the steps, lifted him into her arms, and cradled him against her chest. The feel of him, warm and loose from sleep, quieted a thousand screaming nerves.

His small mouth turned down at the corner, George reached up and touched her cheek. “Ouch?”

“A small one, love.” She hid a wince at his probing and kissed the tip of his index finger. “It doesn’t pain me.”

“Fall down?”

“That is one way to put it.” She smiled a little at his blank expression and carried him down the steps. “Yes, I fell down. But it is over and done with, and now I shall have a spot of tea, and you shall have a little milk and—”

A loud bang on the door nearly scared her out of her skin. George chuckled at her sudden jolt, while Isobel peeked through the window drapes.

“It’s a stranger. I think. He does look a mite familiar.” Isobel scrunched her face. “I think I’ve seen him in the village once or twice.”

As long as it wasn’t Sir Robert, Adelaide didn’t much care who it was or why and how Isobel had seen him. “Please just send him away, Isobel.”

“Yes, of course.” Isobel hurried over and opened the door partway, blocking his view to the inside. “Good day, sir. May I—”

“Everything all right, miss?”

Isobel visibly startled at the question. “Er . . . Yes . . . Yes, everything is perfectly well. I’m sure I don’t know why—”

She broke off when the man reached out and very gently nudged her head out his line of sight and took a quick look at Adelaide.

Isobel shoved his hand away.
“I beg your pardon.”

“Right. Thought the bugger looked a mite off. Beggin’ pardon, miss.” And with that, he spun about and strode down the path.

“Sir? Sir!” Isobel threw a bewildered look over her shoulder. “He’s not answering.” She looked back at the man. “Sir! He won’t even turn around . . . Now he’s gone off the drive . . . Right into the woods. Who the dev . . .” She turned and flicked a glance at George. “Who the deuce was that?”

Adelaide started to shake her head, then stopped when its pounding protested the movement. “I don’t know, perhaps he was passing by on the road and . . . I don’t know. Did he harm you?”

“No, not in the least. But why would he look and then run away?”

“I don’t know,” Adelaide repeated. And quite frankly, she didn’t much care. In comparison to the rest of the day’s events, daft men who went about knocking on doors seemed of little consequence.

“We’ll worry if anything comes of it.” She shifted George to her other hip when he poked experimentally at her cheek. “We’ve more pressing concerns at the moment.”

The splintered wood and broken glass needed to be cleared away before George cut himself. She wanted a cool rag for her cheek. And someone needed to go to town for shot and powder.

I
t was a simple matter to repair the parlor—a few sweeps of the broom, a trip to the attic to store the damaged painting, and the task was complete.

Repairing peace of mind did not come so easily. Overnight, Adelaide’s cheek went from red and swollen to red, black, blue, and swollen, and every time she caught sight of her reflection the next day, she was hounded by questions of what if and thoughts of what might have been.

What if she had never gone to Mrs. Cress’s house party? She might have married Sir Robert without an inkling of his true nature. What sort of life would that have been for George?

She’d brought a monster into his world. She’d very nearly made him a permanent resident. It was an unforgivable error.

Despite George’s complete lack of interest in her ouch and the events surrounding it, she felt an overpowering desire to coddle him. She even went so far as to have Isobel purchase a strawberry tart for him while she was in town buying shot and powder. It was a rare treat in the struggling household.

Adelaide handed it to him in the dining room as the late afternoon light filtered through the drapes. And she watched, delighted beyond measure, as his eyes widened and his plump little fingers curled around the fruit-filled sweet.

“Biscuit!”

“No, it’s not a biscuit, darling. It’s a tart. Will you say that for me? Tart.”

“Biscuit!”

She didn’t have the heart to argue with him. “Yes, all right. Enjoy your . . . sweet.”

Isobel stepped up beside her. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for a mistake you might have made.”

“It’s not guilt,” she lied. “It’s a celebration. The dragon has been slain. The fair maiden emerges victorious.”

Isobel turned and grinned at George. “A party, is it?”

“Biscuit!”

“So I see,” Isobel exclaimed. She turned her head at the sound of hoofbeats thundering up the drive. “It appears we’re to have guests for our celebration.”

Adelaide groaned and took George’s free hand, leading him into the parlor. One day, she thought, why could she not have one day without a visitor? After her brother’s removal to prison, their fair-weather friends had dropped away like flies. They’d gone weeks, months without a caller. Suddenly, everyone in Scotland wanted a word with the Ward family.

Isobel brushed aside a drape. “It’s Mr. Brice. I thought you said he’d gone to Edinburgh.”

“I did. He had.”

“Well, he’s here now,” Isobel pointed out—uselessly, in Adelaide’s opinion—and strode to the door. She opened it before Connor could knock and gifted him with a wide smile. “Mr. Brice. A pleasure to see you.”

Connor strode inside, and Adelaide admitted that—her wish for a day of solitude notwithstanding—it wasn’t altogether terrible to see him.

His clothes were dusty and wrinkled from the road, his thick blond hair tousled from the wind. He looked like a man who’d ridden hell-for-leather across half of Scotland. It suited him, Adelaide thought. That edge of wildness would sit poorly on most men, but it suited Connor Brice.

He gave a short, impatient bow to Isobel. “Miss Ward. Where is your sis—?” He broke off as his gaze landed on Adelaide.

Wary of strangers, George ducked behind her skirts and threw an arm around her leg. It was the only movement in the room, one she doubted Connor noticed. His gaze was focused on her bruised cheek.

A taut silence descended, and tension became a living, breathing entity in the room as she waited for his reaction. But Connor said nothing. He didn’t need to; the searing heat in his eyes spoke volumes.

Adelaide strove for a way to relieve the mounting pressure. “You’ve returned early,” she remarked and thought her voice sounded uncommonly loud. “Did you encounter trouble?”

Connor didn’t immediately answer. His gaze traveled slowly from her cheek to her eyes. “You might say that.”

“Yes, well . . .”

Adelaide felt George shift behind her for a peek of their guest. Connor’s eyes darted to her skirts, and his demeanor underwent a miraculous change. The line across his brow disappeared, and his expression cleared as he entered the parlor and—to her shock—knelt down.

“Is that an infant hiding behind your skirts, Miss Ward?”

George stepped out from his hiding spot and scowled. “No! Not infant!”

“Yes, I can see that now.”

“Mr. Brice, my nephew, George Ward.”

His store of courage spent, George sidled closer to her skirt and gripped his pastry so tightly, thick globs of strawberry filling oozed between his fingers.

“Manners, Georgie,” she chided. When that failed to elicit a response, she gave him a gentle nudge forward.

To her surprise, George threw her a mutinous look before facing Connor. Round shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh before he extended his arm and held out his pastry to Connor. His fingers opened around the remains, pulling free with a loud slurp.

“Share.”

It was the single most reluctant offering Adelaide ever had occasion to witness. Her first instinct was to laugh and reassure George that sharing was not the good manners she’d been referring to, but curiosity kept her quiet. She wanted to see what Connor would do.

To his credit, Connor blinked at the mess once but otherwise remained stoic in the face of such an appalling present.

“That is . . . very generous.” He blinked again, then dragged his gaze to George’s face. “But perhaps, in exchange for the treat, you might take your aunt Isobel outside for a time. We’ll consider it a favor between men.”

George dropped his hand, sent her a bewildered look over his shoulder, then turned back and said, “Peas.”

Connor opened his mouth . . . and closed it. “I was certain that would work.” He stood and studied the child before him. “What does he mean, ‘Peas’?”

Adelaide’s laughter blended with Isobel’s. She couldn’t say for certain why she found Connor’s bafflement so endearing. While she pondered the idea, Isobel crossed the room and swept George into her arms. “It means he likes peas. Give him a few more years, Mr. Brice, and your sort of flattery will have him eating out of your hand. Come along, poppet. Shall we go into the garden and see what creatures are about?”

“Beetles!” George wrapped one arm around Isobel’s neck and crammed a large bite of his treat into his mouth. “Eewels! Eewels! Eewels!”

Adelaide smiled at the pretty, albeit messy, picture her sister and nephew made as they headed off for adventure.

“Your experience with small children is limited, I see,” she said to Connor. And still, he’d made more of an effort in two minutes than Sir Robert had in four months. That was very promising. She leaned down to brush sticky crumbs from her skirts. “He is a little shy. Unaccustomed to seeing strangers in the house, I suppose. And he needs a proper nanny. I fear he might be—”

“Look at me.”

Compelled by the low vibration of fury in Connor’s voice, Adelaide straightened and caught her breath. There was no bafflement in his features now, none of the warmth he’d shown George. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers along her jaw below the bruise. She wasn’t sure what affected her more, the exquisite tenderness of his touch or the roiling violence in his eyes.