Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman Read online

  If no further disaster occurred to prevent it, in a few short weeks, she would be there. She could hardly wait.

  Suddenly the study door opened on a draught of cold air and her cousin Althea dashed in. ‘Is he here yet? Have I missed him?’ she demanded.

  Amanda swallowed the sharp words springing to her lips about the decorum a young lady should employ when entering a room. As she’d learned all too swiftly after Althea joined them at Ashton last spring just before the death of her mother, Amanda’s Aunt Felicia, the cousin who had once followed her about like an adoring puppy now seemed to resent every word she uttered.

  Ignoring, as usual, the girl’s rudeness, Papa only said mildly, ‘Missed who, my dear?’

  His own bereavement had made him more indulgent than was good for the girl, Amanda thought a tad resentfully. Papa never offered her tempestuous cousin the least reproof, no matter how deplorable her speech or actions, though he was perhaps the only one who might be able to correct her highly deficient behaviour.

  ‘Why, Mr Anders, the Navy man, of course!’ Althea replied. ‘He has arrived, hasn’t he? I saw a rum fine coach being driven round to the stables, one done up to a cow’s thumb!’

  The girl must have been hanging about the stables herself, to have picked up that bit of cant. Swallowing a reproof on that point, Amanda said, ‘I fear you’ve missed him. Mr Anders did indeed arrive and has just gone up to his room.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ Althea exclaimed. ‘I suppose I shall have to wait to meet him at dinner.’

  A sudden foreboding filled Amanda, sweeping away her more trivial concern over their genteel neighbours’ probable reaction to having Mr Anders thrust among them. What if Althea, who already seemed eager to seize upon anything of which Amanda disapproved, decided to befriend this low sailor? Considering her current behaviour, it seemed exactly the sort of thing she would do.

  Though normally she would never wish anyone ill, Amanda couldn’t help being thankful that, for tonight at least, Mr Anders appeared to be in no condition to join them for dinner.

  ‘I don’t think he will be coming down to dine. He appeared much fatigued from his journey.’

  ‘Fatigued—from riding in a coach? What a plumper!’ Althea replied roundly. ‘Not a Navy man! I’ll wager Mr Anders has steered his ship for hours in a driving gale and survived for months on hardtack and biscuits! More likely, he’ll be sharp-set enough to eat us out of table.’

  While Amanda gritted her teeth anew at Althea’s vocabulary, Papa replied, ‘Perhaps, but he was wounded and is still recovering.’

  ‘Wounded in battle?’ Althea demanded, her eyes brightening even further. ‘Oh, excellent! Where? When?’

  ‘I believe it was off the Barbary coast, some weeks ago,’ Papa responded.

  ‘How exciting! He must be veritable hero! I cannot wait to have him tell us all about it. What a joy it will be to speak with a truly interesting person, someone who’s had real adventures, who doesn’t natter on and on about gowns and shops and London!’ she declared with a defiant glance at Amanda—just in case she was too dim to understand the jab, Amanda thought, struggling to hang on to her temper.

  ‘Uncle James, have you any books in your library about the Navy?’ she said, turning to Lord Bronning. ‘Oh, never mind, I shall go directly myself and look!’

  At that, with as little ceremony as she’d displayed upon her precipitate arrival, Althea bolted from the room.

  In the wake of her departure, Amanda sent her father an appealing look. ‘Papa, you must warn her off Mr Anders. If we’re not careful, she’ll be painting him as another Lord Nelson!’

  ‘And doubtless urging him to recite details of shipboard life in language not fit for a lady’s ears,’ Papa agreed ruefully.

  ‘I know you feel for her, having lost her mama so soon after her papa, but truly, you must counsel her about this. Heaven knows, I don’t dare say anything for fear she will immediately take that as a challenge to parade with him about the neighbourhood.’

  Papa nodded. ‘She does seem to take umbrage at everything you say. Which I find most odd, since during Felicia’s visits when you girls were younger, Althea used to hang on your every word and copy everything you did.’

  Amanda sighed. A smaller but no less stinging wound to her heart this last year was the, to her, inexplicable hostility with which her cousin now seemed to view her. ‘Truly, Papa, I have tried to be understanding. I don’t know why she seems to resent me so. Perhaps I did criticise her conduct overmuch when she first arrived—I really can’t recall—but with Aunt Felicia so ill and the house in such an uproar, and then Mama falling sick—’

  ‘There now, you mustn’t be blaming yourself,’ Papa said, patting her arm. ‘You were a marvel through that trying time, taking over the household so your dear mama need concern herself only with Felicia…’ His breath hitched and his eyes grew moist before he continued, ‘So strong and capable, I couldn’t be prouder of you. But Althea is young, and perhaps chafed at authority being assumed by one she’d considered almost a peer. She was distraught, and bereft, and grieving—not a felicitous combination for any of us.’

  Amanda blinked the tears back from her eyes. ‘Indeed not, Papa.’ Papa might think her strong, but in truth she had barely managed to hold the household together and was still trying to recover her spirits. Oh, how she yearned to escape Ashton Grove, all its problems and sad memories, and lose herself in the distractions of London!

  Though her younger brother had lately arrived to add to her anxieties, Althea remained the most acute of her burdens. Her own feelings depressed and raw after Mama’s death, Amanda couldn’t help wishing she might be rid of the troublesome girl—a desire Althea probably sensed, which did nothing to ease the tensions between them.

  All her life, she reflected with another pang of grief, she’d been wrapped in a protective cocoon of love and affection spun by her mother and grandmother, buoyed along the floodtide of events by a happiness and security she’d taken for granted until the catastrophes of the last two years—losing first Grandmama, then Aunt Felicia, then Mama—had stripped it from her. Her longing for supportive female company had been sharpened by her difficult relations with her cousin, the only female relative left to her.

  Small wonder she yearned to reach London, where she would be staying with Lady Parnell, her mother’s dear friend whom she’d had known since childhood. Perhaps the affection of this companion from Mama’s own début Season might ease her grief and fill some part of the void left by the last two years’ devastating losses.

  ‘So you will speak to Althea?’ she pleaded, hoping against hope Papa might be able to head off this new complication. ‘’Tis for her own good, you know. What would Aunt Felicia say if she knew we’d allowed Althea to pursue a most unsuitable friendship with a common sailor?’

  ‘Yes, I know I must reprimand her, and I will—gently, though.’

  Her chest squeezing in a surge of love for her kindly sire, Amanda couldn’t help smiling. ‘I only ask that you try to guide her, Papa. You know as well as I you haven’t the heart to reprimand anyone, no matter how much she might need it!’

  ‘I suppose I have been too indulgent. But you’re quite right—it is my responsibility to my dear sister to protect her daughter and counsel her as best I can.’

  ‘Perhaps you could chat without my being present. She’d probably be more inclined to accept instruction if I’m not looking on. Well, I suppose I must go inform Cook about the changes in the dinner plans.’

  ‘I’ll escort you out,’ Bronning said, rising and coming to take her hand. ‘One of my prize mares is about to foal. I think I’ll take myself down to the barn and check on her.’

  Accepting her father’s arm, Amanda walked back down the long hall to the marble entryway with him, her concern about Althea somewhat mollified. Given her cousin’s contemptuous disregard of her, there wasn’t much else she could do but leave the matter in Papa’s hands.

  They had just reached
the grand entry when the front door was thrown back so violently it banged against the wall. Staggering across the threshold, Amanda’s brother George stumbled into the room, waving off the footman who sprinted over to take his coat.

  Her father stopped abruptly and eyed his only son with alarm. ‘George, what’s amiss? Have you suffered an injury?’

  With his red face and bleary eyes, hair in disarray, neck-cloth coming undone and his waistcoat misbuttoned, George did indeed look as if he might have been in an altercation—a fear Amanda initially shared, before a strong odour of spirits wafted to her.

  Her initial concern turned swiftly to irritation as she recalled her brother had not appeared at dinner last evening. Most likely he’d not returned home at all and had instead spent yesterday afternoon, evening and today gaming—or wenching—at some low tavern.

  A glance at her father’s face confirmed he had just reached the same conclusion. His expression of alarm turned to chagrin and a pained sadness, and unconsciously he raised a hand to press against his chest.

  Fury swept through her and she could have cheerfully throttled her brother. How could George be so stupid and thoughtless as to make his dramatic entrance in such a deplorable condition? It was almost as if he expressly desired to agitate and disappoint his already sorely troubled father!

  ‘Papa, why don’t you head out to the stables and check on your mare? I’ll see George to his room. Come along, now,’ she said to her brother, pleased she’d managed to keep her tone even when what she really wished to do was shriek her displeasure into her feckless brother’s ears.

  Contenting herself with giving George’s arm a sharp pinch as she took it, she steered him towards the stairs. Nodding over her shoulder to Papa, who hesitated before finally approaching the butler for his coat, she began half-pushing, half-pulling her brother upwards.

  ‘I hope I shall not contract some nasty disease from having to haul you about,’ she snapped as she finally succeeded in wrestling him up the stairs and into his room. ‘How can you still be so drunk at this hour of the afternoon?’

  ‘Not drunk,’ he slurred, stumbling past her towards the bed. ‘Just…trifle disguised.’

  ‘Was it not enough that you had to distress Papa by getting yourself sent down from Cambridge for some stupid prank?’ she said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. ‘Must you embarrass him before the servants in his own home? Can you never think of anything beyond your own reckless pleasure?’

  George put his hands over his ears and winced, as if her strident tone pained his head. She hoped it did.

  ‘God’s blood, Manda, Allie’s right. You’ve become a shrew. Better sweeten up a little. No gentleman’s goin’ to wanna shackle himself to a female who’s always jaw’n at ’m.’

  A pang pierced her righteous anger. Was that indeed how Althea saw her—as a shrill-voiced harpy always ordering her about? But she’d tried so hard to avoid being just that.

  Before she could decide what to reply, George groaned and clutched his abdomen. Amanda barely had time to snatch the pan from beneath the bed before her brother leaned over it, noisily casting up his accounts. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Amanda retreated to the far corner of the room.

  After a moment, George righted himself and sat on the bed, wiping his mouth. ‘Ah, that’s better. Ring for Richards, won’t you? I believe I’ll have a beefsteak and some ale.’

  Amanda couldn’t help grimacing. ‘George, you are disgusting!’

  ‘Shrew,’ he retorted with an amiable grin—which, despite her irritation and anger, she had to admit was full of charm, even in his present dishevelled condition. This brother of hers was going to cause some lady a great deal of heartache.

  But she didn’t intend it to be her—not for much longer, anyway.

  ‘If you must debauch yourself, at least have the courtesy to come in through the back stairs, so that Papa won’t see you. Can’t you tell he’s still far from recovered from Mama’s death?

  ‘Are any of us recovered?’ he flashed back, a bleak look passing briefly over his face before the grin returned. ‘What d’ya expect, Manda? There’s dam—dashed little to do in this abyss of rural tranquillity but drink and game at the one or two taverns within a ten-mile ride. I’d take myself off where my reprehensible behaviour wouldn’t offend you, but Papa won’t allow me to go to London while I wait for the beginning of next term.’

  ‘London, where you might spend even more on drink and wagering? I should think not! You’d do better to spend some time studying, so as to not be so far behind when you do return.’

  George made a disgusted noise, as if such a suggestion were beneath reply. ‘Lord, how did I tolerate living in this dull place for years? Nothing but fields and cows and crops and fields for miles in every direction! It’s almost enough to make those stupid books look appealing.’

  ‘Fields and crops in prime condition, thanks to Papa’s care, that fund your expensive sojourns at Cambridge. And if you’d paid more attention to those “stupid books” and less to carousing with your fellows, you wouldn’t be marooned in this “dull place” to begin with.’

  George squinted up at her through bloodshot eyes. ‘When did you become such a disapproving spoilsport?’

  ‘When will you become a man worthy of the Neville name?’ she retorted, her heart aching for her father’s disappointment while her anger smouldered at how George’s thoughtlessness was adding to the already-heavy burden of care her father carried. ‘Start showing some interest in the estate Papa has so carefully tended to hand on to you, instead of staying out all night, consorting with ruffians and getting into who-knows-what mischief.’

  Anger flushing his face, George opened his lips to reply before closing them abruptly. ‘Maybe I’m not ready for that steak after all,’ he mumbled, reaching for the basin.

  Realising he was about to be sick again, Amanda shook her head in disgust. There was probably no point in trying to talk with George now. ‘I’ll send Richards in,’ she said, swallowing her ire and willing herself to calm as she tugged on the bell pull and left the chamber.

  She met the valet in the hall, where he must have been hovering, having no doubt been informed by the butler of her brother’s return—and condition. ‘I’m afraid he’s disguised again and feeling quite ill. You’d better bring up some hot water and strip him down.’

  Feeling a pang of sympathy for the long-suffering servant, Amanda headed for the stairs. She paused on the landing, pressing her fingers against the temples that had begun to throb.

  Between her irresponsible brother and her sullen cousin and having to watch Papa drift around the halls and fields, a wraith-like imitation of his former hale and hearty self, was it any wonder she longed to leave Ashton and throw herself into the frivolity of London? There the most difficult dilemma would be choosing what gown to wear, her most pressing problem fitting into her social schedule all the events to which she’d be invited. Her day would be so full, she’d tumble into bed and immediately into sleep, never lie awake aching and alone, yearning for the love and security so abruptly ripped from her.

  Oh, that she might swiftly make a brilliant début, acquire a husband to pamper and adore her and settle into the busy life of a London political wife, seldom to visit the country again.

  She only hoped, as she went to search out Cook and rearrange dinner, that their unwanted guest would not make the last few weeks before she could set her plans in motion even more difficult.

  Chapter Two

  With a bestial roar, the crewman tossed the boarding nets over the side of the pirate vessel. Fear, acrid in his throat, along with a wave of excitement, carried Greville over the side and on to its prow, into the mass of slashing cutlasses, firing pistols and thrusting pikes. Blood already coated the decks, thick and slippery, when he saw the pirate charging at the captain, curved sword raised and teeth bared…

  Abruptly, Greville came awake, his heart pounding as the shriek of wind, boom of musket fire and howls of fighting m
en slowly faded to the quiet tick of a clock in a room where warm sunlight pooled on the floor beneath the windows.

  Morning sun, judging by the hue, he thought, trying to get his bearings. Brighter than light through a porthole.

  About the moment Greville realised he was in a proper bedchamber—a vast, elegant bedchamber—in Lord Bronning’s home at Ashton Grove, Devonshire, praise-the-Lord-England, he heard a discreet cough. Turning towards the sound, he spied a young man in footman’s livery standing inside the doorway, bearing a laden tray.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ the lad said, bowing. ‘Sands sent me up with something from the kitchen, thinking you’d likely be right sharp-set after so many hours.’

  ‘Have I been asleep long?’ Greville asked, still trying to recapture a sense of place and time.

  ‘Aye,’ the young man replied. ‘All the first night, the next day and now ’tis almost noon of the next. Some of the staff was worried you was about to stick your spoon in the wall. But Mrs Pepys—that’s the housekeeper, sir—she’s done some nursing and she said as long as you was breathing deep and regular, there weren’t no danger of you dying and that you’d feel much the better for the rest.’

  He did feel much better, Greville thought. Moreover, he realised suddenly, for the first time since his wounding over a month ago, he hadn’t awakened to the slow, strength-sapping burn of fever.

  He was also, he discovered, truly starving. Contemplating what might lie beneath the plate cover on the tray, his mouth began to water.

  ‘You are right, I am very hungry,’ he told the footman.

  ‘Shall I put the tray on the bed here for you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that would be fine. Thank you…’ He hesitated.

  ‘Luke, sir,’ the footman supplied. ‘Sands says I’m to assist you with dressing and such, if’n you need any help.’