Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (10 page)

"I could not very well let him have Tom."

"Why did you not call for me? Your lungs are certainly capable of it."

Amanda glowered at him for that cutting remark, but it did not deter her. "I could not go find you because he might have escaped. If I screamed, it would only alert him, and he would disappear that much faster."

"So you chose to confront him yourself, barefoot and weaponless?"

She bit her lip and looked away, a puzzled frown on her face. "In my experience, bullies back down when confronted. And failing that, a few well-placed punches have always served me well."

"And you have a lot of experience with London bullies who prey off of young boys and run thieving rings?"

A faint tinge of red colored her cheeks. "Uh, no. London does seem to grow a particularly nasty form of bully. He seemed remarkably impervious to my jabs."

Stephen felt his blood run cold with shock. "You punched him?"

"Oh, yes. Repeatedly, but he only sneered at me. That is why I wish you to teach me how to fight." She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and hopeful.

He reached for his brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he swiftly opened his desk, drew out a few sheets of foolscap, a pen, and ink, and shoved them forward to his odd ward.

"My lord?"

"Write this down, Amanda. In large print so that it will be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you read before closing your eyes at night."

"But—"

"Write the following at the top: Rules for a Lady." He glared down at her until she obediently scratched the appropriate words. "Number one. A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats."

"But slippers were too unsafe on the trellis."

"Write!"

She hastily set his words to paper. "Does not run barefoot after cutthroats," she murmured.

"Number two. A lady does not climb up or down trellises." He paused, waiting for her to catch up to him. "Number three. A lady does not punch people."

She glanced up. "Even when they are villainous brutes?"

"A lady screams or calls for help so a sufficient number of men can come and knock out the villainous brute."

"Seems remarkably inefficient to me," she commented. "Especially when I could do it just as well." She glanced up, her mouth turned down into a distinct pout. "Or rather, I could if someone would teach me how."

Stephen groaned. "Number four! A lady does not brawl!"

"I thought that was number three."

"You seem to need it twice."

She sighed and continued to write.

"Number five. A lady does not ride on the top of a stage."

"You never forget anything, do you?"

"Some things are etched upon my memory," he said dryly. "Especially since it occurred only yesterday."

She shrugged and quickly wrote the words. Then, when she finished, she glanced up, her face set in an expression of long-suffering patience. "Is that all?"

"For the moment. Though I am sure I will find occasion to add to your list."

"No doubt," she commented, her voice as dry as his. As she sanded the page, Stephen could not help but stare at her. This small woman climbed barefoot out of windows, punched villains twice her size, was nearly choked to death, and yet she acted as if it were all perfectly normal. Was she a lunatic or merely so lacking in sensibilities as to be a threat to herself and everyone around her?

Or both?

She finished sanding the page and sat back in her chair. "May I go to bed now?"

"Amanda, you were nearly killed tonight! Have you no sense of what could have happened to you?"

She lifted her chin, her eyes steady as they met his gaze. "I could not leave Tom to fend for himself against that man. Calling for help would only have alerted the brute and delayed me."

"So you climbed barefoot down a trellis—"

"Why do you keep harping about my feet?" She waved her hands in agitation. "It was the safest way to reach the ground. True, I should have brought something to hit the man with, but I had no idea he was so large."

"Amanda, you had no idea at all. You endangered yourself and Tom without the least chance of success. If I had not heard you climbing down the trellis, you would have been killed or worse." He reached for his brandy, not wanting to think about what would have been worse. Then he discovered his glass empty, and he set about refilling it. Only after he took another few gulps did he chance to look up and see Amanda staring at him with naked shock on her face.

"What?"

"You really are upset."

"Of course I am upset!" he bellowed.

"But why? Because I climbed down the trellis? Because I was barefoot? Or because I defended a street orphan from a bully?"

He set down his glass with a click and crossed to stand directly in front of her. "It is because you could have been killed. My God, woman, have you no fear of dying? Of being hurt or sold into slavery?"

She rose slowly from her seat, and he watched her every movement from the slight tilt of her head to the gentle press of her fingertips on his forearm. "My lord. Stephen. I have seen many people die in my life. They have died suddenly or slowly, some in accidents, others eaten up bit by bit from drink or disease or plain bitterness."

"What has that to do with—"

"I have told you before, I wished myself dead a thousand times. Death holds no terror for me. What terrifies me is living without meaning or purpose."

He stared at her, seeing the earnestness in her expression, the conviction in her voice, and could think of nothing to say. She seemed much too mature for a girl of twenty-one.

"I am tired, my lord." She sketched a brief curtsy. "Good night."

And with that, she slipped out of the room, abandoning her list of rules to him.

Chapter 5

Rule #6:

A lady does not pick locks.

Gillian peered around the hall door, then ducked back as she saw Greely, the earl's starched butler, standing guard by the front door. Oh, this is foolish beyond measure! She scolded herself. She had never in her life been willfully stupid, but here she was, lurking in a back parlor waiting to break into the earl's library.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And if she were caught, who knew how many more rules he would add to her list of ladylike behavior? He had added another four in the last week alone and continued to post the sheet beside her bed no matter how many times she ripped the silly thing down.

It had been horrible these last few days. Between interminable fittings, shopping for stiff undergarments, not to mention tea lessons, dancing lessons, and deportment lessons, she was hard put to catch her breath, much less disappear for some solitude. She'd never realized how much she enjoyed her dawn walks along the harsh Yorkshire moors until she came to London and such moments seemed an impossible dream.

So what did she do when she finally found a scant few minutes of peace? Was she upstairs, stretched upon her bed with her eyes closed as she imagined the scent of heather and sweet moss beneath her feet? Was she slipping out of her tight new undergarments or pretending to study her French verbs as the countess ordered? No. She lurked in a dark room, probably smearing dirt all over her hideously white new gown, while she waited for Greely to disappear so she could risk everything on a foolish errand for Mr. Oltheten.

Madness. Total madness.

Gillian sighed. What did she care about a sick old man who had once been nice to her? And he had not truly been kind, merely fair, treating her as a person rather than a bastard. He'd complimented her handling of Amanda's estate and was quite reasonable when she asked for funds to repair some of the crofters' huts.

But that did not demand this idiotic escapade on her part.

Gillian tensed as a footman entered the hallway. If he came to the parlor, he would find her. She hunched down, wondering what excuse she would give for hiding in this back parlor. Then to her surprise, the young servant stopped and spoke to Greely in low, urgent tones. From the expressions on their faces, it was probably another altercation with the temperamental cook. With a muffled curse, Greely waved the footman toward the back stairs, and they both disappeared toward the kitchen.

Now was her chance.

Gillian slid out of the back parlor and tiptoed around the corner. The library door whispered softly against the thick carpet, but then she slipped inside, pushing it shut while the frantic beat of her heart pounded in her ears.

She went straight to the earl's desk. A huge mahogany masterpiece, it was bliss to look at. Unable to resist, she traced the gleaming top, luxuriating in the slide of polished wood beneath her fingertips as she settled into his chair.

The red leather was molded to fit his larger, harder frame, making it feel slightly awkward as she sat, but then it gave beneath her, seeming to enfold her in a sensuous caress. She began to tingle as she felt his scent rise up to greet her, filling her mind with odd thoughts and images of him.

Disconcerted, she fumbled slightly as she drew out a thin wire and inserted it into the desk lock. It took her longer than usual. She was years out of practice, but eventually she heard the satisfying click as the lock released. Within seconds she opened the desk drawers and carefully scanned their contents.

The interior of a person's desk was a strangely intimate place. Whereas her papers at home were often strewn about on top or haphazardly tossed inside, the earl's were tidy, ordered, placed with military precision in neat stacks. She would have to be very careful to place everything back just where it belonged.

Gillian worked quickly, but she searched for something relatively obscure. She wanted the elder Mr. Oltheten's address so she could send on a recipe for a potion for his lungs. She had considered asking the earl, but then he would wish to know why, and that was dangerous ground. The real Amanda had cared nothing for herbs and plants. She'd wanted only laudanum to help her sleep.

Then, too, there was the added risk of seeing Mr. Oltheten. Of anyone in London, he was the only soul who knew her on sight. He would surely recognize her. Better to find the address, then send the recipe anonymously. She dared not risk more.

So she scanned the papers looking for Mr. Oltheten's address. He had been Stephen's father's solicitor. Surely Stephen had his direction somewhere.

Gillian worked at a feverish pace. She pulled out a stack of ledgers, thinking Stephen might have recorded the address in there. She scanned the neat columns, stunned at the numbers she saw. Why, the earl was in command of a vast fortune! No wonder Amanda's tiny Yorkshire estate was neglected. It was only one pitiful place among a richness of land and other ventures.

Gillian carefully replaced the books, then turned to the bottom left-hand drawer, her last hope. Quickly sliding it open, she was frankly surprised by what she saw. The pistol and money box were startling, but not really unusual. No doubt many gentlemen kept both in their desks. What drew her attention were four small, worn leather books. Picking one up, she knew it immediately as a journal.

The starched Earl of Mavenford kept a diary. What a find!

Unable to resist learning anything about her forbidding guardian, Gillian opened it to the first page. There, in a childish scrawl, the young Stephen recorded receiving this journal for his eighth birthday.

Quickly turning the pages, she saw regular entries chronicling his young life. There were delightful essays on the nature of sour-faced tutors, a clearly much-belabored love poem to a woman named Betty, and the results of a scientific study into the perfect fishing techniques.

The next three books continued as the first, recording the days of his life. Her original goal forgotten, she quickly flipped through the pages, searching for the day she had first arrived. What could he have written about her?

"Find everything you wanted?"

The earl's low voice cut through her thoughts, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. One hasty glance over her shoulder revealed Stephen—it was impossible to think of him as an earl after reading his poetry—looking elegantly austere in black, his dark eyebrows a heavy slash of anger across his face.