Elizabeth Powell (5 page)

“Wait!” Sebastian called after her. “Will you at least give me your name?”

She opened the gate and paused long enough to glance over one shoulder. “I think it best if I did not. I apologize for intruding upon your privacy and for damaging your rhododendrons. I have learned my lesson about eavesdropping, sir; you made your point most eloquently. I shall not trouble you again.”

Then she vanished into the alley.

Sebastian stared after her, totally and thoroughly baffled. That had not gone at all the way he intended; she had seemed affected by neither his looks nor his charm. Was he losing his touch with the ladies? Gad, what a lowering thought!

Such a strange day this had been. He had awakened early—a little past nine o’clock—with gritty eyes, a wretchedly unhappy stomach, and a head that felt as though someone had wrapped it in wool and pounded upon it. Actually, considering the amount of brandy he had consumed last night, he felt better than he expected. Or he had until his father’s man of business arrived, after which the morning took a decided turn for the worse.

With a superior sneer, the pompous little weasel informed him that he had been instructed to make sure Sebastian followed the Earl of Stanhope’s orders to the letter, and to tell him the earl would brook no delay. The viscount had tried to reason with the chap but to no avail. Then he had tried ranting, swearing, and even threatening to be sick on the fellow’s shoes, but the officious prig would not be put off.

Once Grafton managed to get him bathed and
shaved—no small feat, considering his rather miserable condition—Sebastian had made the journey to Hanover Square. Thankfully, as far as his woozy stomach was concerned, the drive had been brief. There he had taken possession of Langley House in order to fulfill the last of his father’s stipulations. At which point he’d had the great satisfaction of ushering the little weasel out the front door and slamming it behind him.

Sebastian stared up at the rear façade of the town house. Cavernous and elegantly furnished, especially when compared to his shabby rooms in Half Moon Street, Langley House was just as he remembered it… except for the ghosts. His brother’s presence lingered everywhere, from the portrait on the drawing room chimneypiece to the vague smell of cheroot smoke in the study. Everything had been preserved just as it had been before Alexander’s death—a minimal staff had been kept on to maintain it with the greatest of care. Sebastian’s lips tightened. This was his father’s doing. He’d turned the place into a shrine to his dead son.

And now he expected Sebastian to live here.

The garden, at least, provided some solace. Alex had loved this place; he had called it his London oasis, a respite from the worst of the city’s noise and the dizzying press of activity. This was the side of Alex that no one but Sebastian had been allowed to see, not even their father. Especially not their father. Though he had not much space with which to work, his brother had cultivated an array of flowers and shrubs that would provide color all season long, along with taller trees and bushes that would give shade on blistering summer days. A gravel-lined path snaked between the flower beds like a narrow, serpentine river. Like his brother, Sebastian felt at peace here. Or he had until
she
had tumbled into his life.

A most unusual day. The officious weasel, his dead brother’s house … and now the irritating, intriguing, contradictory creature who lived next door. What else did Fate have in store for him?

Gravel crunching beneath his boots, the bemused viscount wandered back to the bed of bedraggled rhododendrons and knelt to survey the damage. Blooms, buds, and leaves lay scattered everywhere, but only two bushes appeared to be irreparably damaged. The gardener could easily clear away the branch, and replace—

A patch of periwinkle blue caught his eye, incongruous against the dark earth and shiny green rhododendrons. He drew it out from beneath a bush and realized it was a soft wool shawl. Hers, obviously. He brushed away the twigs and leaves, then noticed the soft scent that clung to it. Lilacs. The scent suited her. He chuckled, imagining the expression on the girl’s face if he were to appear at her front door to return her property. But to do so would put them both in an awkward position, so he would have to find some other way to get it back to her. He fingered the material, then returned his gaze to the flower bed. Had she left anything else behind?

He looked more closely, remembering where he had found the shawl, then groped around in the damp mulch for several moments; his fingers closed around a small, rectangular object. He brought it out into the light and examined the cover. Some sort of journal by the look of it, although no identifying imprint marked the cover. The viscount rose and shook the last fragments of mulch from the book’s surface. Perhaps whatever was inside would tell him the imp’s name.

His conscience pricked him, but he shrugged it off. Once the girl realized that her diary was in his possession, she would be forced to see him again—and he
could collect that kiss. Or at least he would tease her with the prospect. Sebastian grinned at the thought. What harm would a little flirtation do?

He opened the book. And frowned. What the devil…?

On each page, written neatly in pencil, was a gentleman’s name, along with a column labeled “Merits” and one labeled “Drawbacks.” Some gentlemen had an equal number of entries in both columns, but for the most part their disadvantages outweighed their merits. He cringed at a particular turn of phrase; she had not been kind in her descriptions. His frown deepened as he flipped through the pages. Viscount Heathford, the Earl of Albermarle, Viscount Plimpton, the Marquess of Camden … all titled, to a man.

It seemed the girl was in the market for a husband, and she had set her sights quite high indeed. Sebastian closed the book and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. Strange, then, that she had not played the coquette with him. She must not have known who he was. Yes, that had to be it; she had addressed him as “sir,” not “my lord.” Even so, his status should have been obvious … shouldn’t it?

He glanced down at himself but found nothing objectionable about his appearance. He
looked
like a lord, one handsome enough to fulfill a girl’s ambitious matrimonial dreams. So, even considering the—ah—unusual circumstances of their acquaintance, one would think she would have tried to take advantage of the situation; most of the marriage-minded females of his acquaintance certainly would have. Yet she had attempted none of the traditional methods of flirtation—no maidenly blushes, no fluttering of the lashes (although her lashes had been long and dark and eminently suited to fluttering), no demure lowering of the eyes. Curious.

Sebastian wandered back toward the house, still deep in thought. Who was this girl? And was there any chance she was an heiress? He snorted. Not likely; she had not been dressed in the first stare of fashion, nor, fortunately for him, had she been guarded by a dragon of a duenna. She seemed to be after a title, which might very well mean she was after a fortune, as well. He could not help her there. At any rate, she met none of his criteria for a advantageous match, so he should not even consider her.

He might not want to marry the imp, but she intrigued him enough to want to know more about her. He studied the neighboring town house. A few discreet inquiries would give him her name. She was in the market for a husband, which meant she would be out in Society; perhaps he might even see her at one of the many balls or parties scheduled this week. Seeing the expression of surprise and shock on her elfin features would be compensation enough for enduring the endless rounds of inquisitive stares and appraising glances from eligible ladies and their marriage-minded mamas.

As soon as the viscount passed through the back door, Grafton hurried across the empty kitchen to meet him.

“Is everything all right, my lord?” the valet asked, lines of worry etched in his narrow face. “I heard the noise, but you gave strictest orders that you not be disturbed …” He trailed off, his sharp dark eyes focused on the items the viscount held in his hands. “What on earth has happened?”

“Never mind. Grafton, my good man,” replied Sebastian with a smile, “come with me. I have a job for you.”

Jane hurried home, through the alley, back through her own familiar garden, and, after pausing long enough to ensure that none of the kitchen staff would see her,
dashed headlong up the servants’ staircase. She reached her room, closed the door quietly behind her, then leaned her forehead against the cool, painted wood. Her shallow breathing thundered in her ears. The scratches on her hands throbbed to the rhythm of her heart. An image of sardonic, deep blue eyes taunted her, no matter how tightly shut she squeezed her own.

She had never imagined that the branch would give way beneath her. Give way and throw her at the feet of a handsome, infuriating man. What on earth had possessed her to take such an absurd risk? The stranger had been right to scold her; she had not thought about the consequences of her actions. She butted her forehead gently against the door. Fool. Idiot. Addlepate. She could have gotten herself killed, injured … or worse. So much for her adventure.

Her whole body trembled as though her bones had turned to pudding. This would never do; she needed to regain her composure before her mother came home. Jane wobbled over to her dressing room table and sank into the chair set before it. She stared at her reflection in the looking glass and gasped. Heavens, she was a mess! Twigs and leaves stuck out at haphazard angles from her wild mass of hair, and a splotch of dirt mottled one cheek. She looked even more unattractive than usual… yet the stranger had still wanted to kiss her. Part of her had almost let him.

She shivered. Was it wrong to want to be kissed? Well, it was if the gentleman offering to do the kissing was someone other than one’s betrothed. Besides, there was more to this stranger than an athletic form and endlessly deep blue eyes. Jane remembered the fine lines around his mouth and the puffy, slightly discolored skin beneath
his eyes; she had seen such hallmarks on her father’s face in the months before his death.

What vices and secrets lay concealed beneath the stranger’s handsome exterior? And he was nothing if not handsome. Handsome—and arrogant and condescending and vexatious. Emphasis on
vexatious
. Yes, he had every right to be angry with her, but what sort of man kissed a woman to teach her a lesson? Whoever he was, she would do well to avoid him in the future; she did not doubt for a moment that, if they saw each other again, the rogue would attempt to claim that kiss, and how in the world would she explain
that
to her mother?

Jane picked up her comb and began to disentangle the bits of wayward greenery from her mousy locks. If she were careful, no one would have any inkling that anything untoward had happened to her. She would rearrange her hair, put on a clean frock, then go about the rest of her day as usual. She’d give the List back to Pen, and—

She stared down at the cuff of her sleeve, which was torn, dirtied … and empty.

The List was gone.

Her heart beating at a frantic pace, she searched her room, but nowhere did she see any sign of the small leather-bound journal. Where could it be? Had she dropped it during her flight back home? She dashed to the window by her bed, the one that overlooked the garden, threw open the sash, and leaned out. Was that it over by the rose bushes? No, that was merely a shadow. She scanned the garden pathways below until her eyes began to smart. Nothing.

Then the realization struck her. She knew exactly where the List was—it must have slipped out of her sleeve when she’d fallen into the garden next door. It was
probably lying beneath that elm branch. Or … Her blood turned to ice. Or did
he
have it?

In a daze, Jane returned to her dressing table. How could she have been so careless? Oh, Lud, to think that she had lost something so important. If the List fell into the wrong hands, Pen’s reputation would be in shreds by tomorrow morning. She shuddered and thrust the awful thought aside. She had to concentrate on finding the journal and getting it back.

But how? She could not very well march into the fellow’s house and demand that he return Pen’s List. Nor could she sneak in during the day and risk being spotted by one of his servants or, worse yet, McBride. Given the hawk-like way the dresser was keeping watch on both her and Pen, Jane would have no opportunity to slip out alone. If she were careful, she might have a chance to retrieve it tonight, after they returned from the Symingtons’ ball. That is, if it was still in the garden …

She leaned her elbows on the table’s surface, her hands clasped in fervent prayer. “Lord,” she said softly, “I know I have not been myself of late, but please let me retrieve Pen’s List, and I swear I will never,
ever
do anything forward or unconventional again. I shall marry Augustus and settle down to a quiet life at Wellbourne and never do anything the least bit adventurous!”

She had no way of knowing whether the Almighty heard her heartfelt plea, for at that moment a commotion from downstairs distracted her. Jane started; her mother was home. She swallowed hard. No one must see her like this, but especially not Lady Portia! Galvanized by a pressing sense of dread, she hurried to make herself presentable.

When she arrived downstairs fifteen minutes later, Jane tried to slip unnoticed into the drawing room where
her parent sat chatting away with Penelope, but no sooner had she crossed the threshold than her mother’s icy blue glare skewered her where she stood.

“And just where have you been? I vow you are the oddest creature, Jane, forever disappearing when I—” Lady Portia Rutledge paused, then inspected Jane from head to toe. “What on earth happened to you? Oh, do not tell me you were racketing about in the stables again. You’re not a groom, Jane, but a young lady, and while we are in London I will thank you to at least make an attempt to act like one.”

Jane bit back the angry retort that sprang to her lips; she had learned long ago not to provoke her mother. Instead, she gave a curt nod. “Yes, Mama.”