Snowbound With the Notorious Rake (20 page)

‘W
ell, I am pleased that business is out of the way!’ George Craven followed Lawrence out of the lawyer’s office and into the waiting carriage. ‘Can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for sorting out that little matter, Daunton. With the cargo recovered, and the ship’s captain making a full confession, we have a strong case against Emsleigh. And I’ve learned it is not the first time the man has come up against the law—it seems he’s been sailing close to the wind for years, with his lawyers successfully defending him against several charges of smuggling. He’s always escaped because there’s never been enough evidence, but this time we’ve caught him fair and square. Well done, my friend.’

Lawrence settled himself into his seat.

‘How soon will it come to court, do you think?’

‘Oh, not ’til the spring,’ replied Craven cheerfully. ‘Until then Emsleigh is safe enough in Newgate; he
seems to have enough funds for a few luxuries while he waits for his trial. Brrr!’ He shivered. ‘If I’m not mistaken we shall have snow before morning. The sooner we get out of the cold, the better. I’ll drop you at your rooms and collect you again in, say, two hours. Will that be time enough for you to change? I am going to buy you the best dinner White’s can provide!’

‘Really, George, there is no need—’

‘Nonsense, man, you have saved me from ruin. And you are in no rush to go to Hampshire?’

‘None at all. In fact, I may well remain in town for Christmas.’

‘What, you will stay away from Daunton House for another year? My family will be deeply disappointed. They hoped that after the amount of time you have spent there this year you would be making it your home.’

‘And I probably shall—but not yet.’

‘Ah, I understand.’ George nodded and gave him a knowing wink. ‘Christmas time. You would have that army of aunts, uncles and cousins descending upon you and they would be colluding with
my
family, doing their best to make you forget your grief over m’sister, but only making it worse with their dismal sighs and sympathetic looks.’

‘Exactly.’

‘No wonder, then, you would rather remain here! I’d stay with you, but—well—you know how it is. Having come so close to ruin this summer, I am minded to settle down. M’father is getting too old to manage the estate now, so I thought I would live at home and help him.’

‘Very commendable,’ said Lawrence gravely.

‘Aye, I think so,’ said George, pleased with himself. ‘But I don’t travel down until tomorrow, so tonight you and I will have one final spree!’

Lawrence frowned up at the imposing frontage of Samlesbury House as the carriage drew up before the door.

‘Really, Craven, I am not sure I am in the mood to be sociable.’

‘Nonsense, you are out of practice, having lived like a monk this past year! This isn’t one of your starched-up
ton
parties—Nancy Samlesbury will have packed the place with dashing young matrons, everyone of ’em eager for a little light-hearted dalliance.’ George Craven jumped out of the carriage and held open the door. ‘Come along, Daunton, I have already told our hostess I would be bringing you with me and I daren’t disappoint her.’

Stifling a sigh, Lawrence followed him into the house and up the curving staircase towards the noisy ballroom. Lady Samlesbury swept across to them as they were announced.

‘So you have brought him.’ After flashing a smile at Craven, she turned her attention to Sir Lawrence, holding out her hand and fixing him with kohl-rimmed eyes that held more than a hint of an invitation. ‘My dear Sir Lawrence, you have become a positive stranger at our little parties.’ Her fingers tightened their grip as he bowed over her hand. She waited until George had moved away, then she lowered her voice to murmur in
his ear, ‘I was afraid you had forgotten me and our…time together.’

The corners of his mouth curved upwards.

‘How could I ever forget such a pleasurable experience?’

She moved closer, peeping at him over the top of her fan.

‘Perhaps we should try to recreate it…’

‘Fie, Nancy, that was two years ago, before you married Samlesbury and became a respectable married woman. Would you make him jealous?’

‘No, alas.’ She sighed, fingering the exquisite diamonds at her neck. ‘Not when he is so generous to me.’ With a laugh she tucked her hand into his arm.

‘No, Lawrence, you are right, I must behave myself now. But there are many ladies here who are eager to renew their acquaintance with you…’

By midnight Lawrence’s cheeks ached from incessant smiling and his head was beginning to throb. It was not from the wine—he had drunk very little, needing to keep his wits about him to avoid the wiles of the numerous ladies who were intent upon flirting with him. He felt like a fox, being hunted at every turn. His first dance partner had twisted her ankle and needed to be helped to a secluded alcove; the next had felt a little faint and insisted he accompany her to a deserted balcony, where the arctic temperatures came to his aid in persuading her that dalliance in such circumstances would undoubtedly result in a severe inflammation of the lungs. Then there was the serious-looking matron
who disputed with him over certain lines in ‘The Lady of the Lake’ and carried him off to the book room, where she threw herself against the door and refused to let him leave until he had kissed her.

A year ago Lawrence would have joined in their games, shrugged his broad shoulders and indulged these rapacious women with a fast, furious flirtation. One of them might even have ended up in his bed. Now there was only one woman he wanted in his arms, only one pair of eyes he wanted to find fixed upon him, and if he could not have Rose, he would have no one. These society ladies with their strong, cloying perfume and knowing smiles left him unmoved. It had taken rapid thinking and a great deal of tact and charm to avoid all the snares set for him, but somehow he had succeeded; so well, in fact, that when he dragged his friend out of the house in the early hours of the morning his hostess assured him that he was welcome at Samlesbury House at any time. And that he had secured his place as a firm favourite with her guests.

Unbelievably weary, Lawrence bundled George into a hired cab and gave the driver his instructions.

‘Charming party,’ declared George, slurring his words a little. ‘Nancy always knows how to entertain her guests. Did you dance with that little redhead?’

‘Yes, I danced with her,’ said Lawrence, bringing to mind the freckle-faced matron who had pushed herself against him and told him the days he might find her at home alone.

‘What a flirt. And with her husband standing by, too! By Gad, she was a tempting little thing.’

Lawrence turned his head to peer across the carriage.

‘Tell me truthfully, George—did you really enjoy yourself tonight?’

‘Why, yes, of course! Couldn’t fail to enjoy myself with such a charming set. Did they not please you?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Extraordinary.’ George sat up. ‘Not coming down with something, are you, old boy? Touch of gout, perhaps?’

‘I think not. Old age, perhaps.’

‘Aye, could be,’ came the serious reply. ‘You are thirty now, after all. But if you no longer enjoy the society, there’s precious little reason to stay in town for Christmas.’

‘I know.’

‘Dashed if I can understand you,’ exclaimed Craven, shaking his head. ‘You won’t go to your family home, you dislike London—what
do
you want to do?’

Lawrence sighed and turned his head to look out at the night. The streets were still busy; lamps burned outside many of the houses, lighting the way for the non-stop procession of carriages that picked their way between the soil carts and the nightwatch, who cried the hour while keeping a wary eye upon the little groups of revellers making their way home. He had friends enough in town, but if he stayed they would be pressing him to join them—how could he explain that he wanted nothing more than to be alone, to ponder on his future?

As he watched, a few fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window.

‘I don’t know, George. I may go back to Knightscote.’

‘Exmoor—in December?’ Craven gave a crack of laughter. ‘From what you’ve told me your lodge is in the middle of nowhere—you might not see anyone for weeks!’

Lawrence looked at him, a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.

‘Perfect!’

Christmas Eve. A sharp icy wind had been scouring the moors for days and it howled around Knightscote Lodge, whispering under the doors and making the fires burn with an extra-bright glow. Lawrence pulled his chair closer to the hearth and sat down, stretching his long legs before him. He had arrived at the lodge at dusk that day, which had sent Mrs Brendon into a flurry of activity. She hurriedly despatched a man to Exford to buy more provisions and bustled about the house, muttering darkly about the difficulties of working for a man who says one minute he might never come back again and the next turns up without so much as a by your leave. The only one genuinely happy to see him was the pointer bitch, Bandit. Lawrence’s keeper had gone off to visit his family for a few days and left the dog in the care of the stable boy. Thus, when Lawrence had arrived and ridden to the stables, Bandit had come running out, fawning around his legs and making it impossible for Lawrence to proceed until he had greeted her.

He had retreated to the drawing room while his
housekeeper bustled about putting the house into what she considered a fit state for its master, but by the time he had complimented her upon a fine dinner and declared himself well satisfied with all her arrangements, harmony had been restored.

That had been some hours ago. Knowing the staff would be up early the following day to walk to church, Lawrence had sent them all to bed. He had fetched Bandit for company and a bottle of brandy for solace and was now settling down to while away the evening in front of the fire. He was in a reflective mood and his brandy glass remained untouched as he lounged in his chair, staring into the flames.

A year ago today it had all started. Rose Westerhill had burst into his life and changed it for ever. She had accused him of wallowing in self-pity and in his attempts to prove her wrong he had reformed his way of life. That had not been difficult, but making Rose believe that he was a changed man had proved impossible. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks into the air and waking Bandit from her slumbers at her master’s feet. Lawrence put out a hand and stroked the smooth head.

‘Perhaps it’s mere conceit,’ he addressed the pointer, who was gazing up at him adoringly, ‘but I thought she would know that I was different.’

Bandit merely licked his hand. Lawrence gave her a final pat and sank back in his chair. They remained thus, unmoving, until Lawrence heard the sound of hoofs clinking on the cobbles. In a flash he was at the window, throwing back the heavy curtains to peer out.
A thin covering of snow lightened the darkness, but he could see nothing moving save the bushes at the edges of the drive, bending before the driving wind.

‘There’s no one there, you fool.’ He returned to the chair and picked up his glass.

Wishful thinking. Perhaps it had been a mistake to return to Knightscote. The place held too many memories. He should sell it; there was nothing here for him any longer. As he leaned forwards to throw another log onto the fire a sudden gust of wind moaned through the house, rattling the door. Bandit was immediately on the alert.

‘Easy, now. It’s an old house, full of creaking boards and rattling windows.’ Lawrence sipped at the brandy. ‘Perhaps I will build myself a new hunting lodge in Leicestershire. What do you say to that?’

Bandit was not listening. She rose and padded towards the door, ears pricked.

Lawrence was about to order her back when the candlelight glinted on the turning handle. He put down his glass and rose to his feet.

‘I am dreaming.’

Rose entered the drawing room and stood with her back pressed against the door, her powder-blue cloak glistening with melting snow. She remained there for a long moment, uncertain of her welcome, until Bandit’s effusive greetings could no longer be ignored.

Lawrence watched, transfixed, as she bent down to make a fuss of the dog.

‘How did you get in?’

‘Through the kitchen. I could see no lights, so I rode round to the stables.’ She gently pushed Bandit away and straightened. ‘May I come in?’

Lawrence looked at the glass on the table beside him. It was almost full. So this was not a brandy-induced fantasy. His spirits lifted.

‘Have you lost your way?’

‘No.’ A smile trembled on her lips. ‘I think I may have found it.’

In two strides he crossed the room, reaching out for her. With a sob she fell into his arms, turning her face up to receive his kiss. He swooped, capturing her mouth, demanding a response that she was eager to give. Her arms crept up around his neck. He registered the damp leather of her gloves, felt the chill of her clothes as she pressed against him.

‘You are like ice.’ He led her towards the fire. ‘Come and warm yourself.’

He unfastened her cloak and tossed it aside before pushing her down into the chair.

‘If you are not lost, then what the devil are you doing abroad so late?’

His voice was rough with concern, but she did not appear to notice.

‘I could not rest. I wondered—’ A rueful smile played about her mouth. ‘After my getting stranded last year, it was decided I should not go to Exford this Christmas. Indeed, my family have become so protective I have not been allowed to go anywhere alone. But I needed to know if—if you were here, so I waited until they
retired, then slipped out and bribed a sleepy stable boy to saddle my mare.’

‘And what would you have done if I had not been here?’

‘“Made me a willow cabin at your gate,”’ she quoted. ‘“And called upon my soul within the house.”’

Lawrence wanted to be angry at such foolishness, but found he could not stop smiling.

‘Ninnyhammer,’ he murmured.

She blushed and looked away, suddenly shy. She stripped off her gloves and looked at her fingers. They were red and aching with the cold.