To add insult to injury, she crossed her arms over her twin temptations, hiding even the thinly draped shapes from view. “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,’ and I’m more than ready to retire. So would you stop being coy and tell me what you were doing in Papa’s desk?”
Coy
, for the love of God? She taunted him with flashes of her body, and
he
was coy? He’d built an empire on his reputation for being formidable. A woman, calling him
coy
! How his competitors would laugh to hear that tale over their brandy and cigars—
Cigars. Hmm. “I was looking for a cigar.”
“A cigar?”
“Yes. I need a smoke before I retire, and I’m all out. Since Knighton doesn’t smoke, I intended to see if your father kept some in his study.” He paused, then continued more sarcastically, “I’m not by nature a cigar thief, but a man gets desperate when he’s gone all day without. And I didn’t realize you patrolled the halls at night fully armed. Tell me,
do you always use the sword, or do you sometimes resort to pistols? I want to prepare myself in case you shoot at me one night.”
“Very amusing. And if cigars are all you came down here for, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Surely you didn’t expect me to reveal all my vices at our first meeting.”
“You mean other than the ones you’ve already revealed?”
“Exactly.” No point in arguing with the contentious woman. Besides, he wanted to be rid of her so he could resume his search.
But she seemed in no hurry to leave. She was opening drawers willy-nilly. Suddenly she pulled out a wooden box and thrust it at him. “Here, Mr. Brennan. My father’s old cigars. We can’t have you wandering about the house unable to sleep when the remedy to your insomnia is so close at hand. Papa hasn’t smoked in years, so he won’t mind if you enjoy them.”
By God, she’d believed him! He took the box and opened it, feigning interest in its contents. The cigars appeared to be of fine quality. A pity he never smoked.
He closed the box and tucked it under his arm. “Thank you, that’s most generous.”
“Don’t you want to smoke one now?”
“Here?”
“Certainly.”
Was this a trick? Or did the woman truly have no idea what she’d proposed? “I may be a mere man of affairs, but I do know the rules of polite society. I’d never be so rude as to smoke in front of a lady.”
“You have peculiar notions about propriety, sir. You find it acceptable to plunder your host’s private possessions and hold a sword to his daughter’s
throat, yet you quibble over smoking a cigar in her presence?”
A smile tugged at his lips in spite of himself. “I’m not the only one with peculiar notions about propriety. You’ve shown no qualm about parading in your wrapper before a man alone at night. What would your father say to that?”
For the first time that evening, the Amazon blushed, the pretty color warring with the extreme orange of her wrapper. “Yes, well, I think it best that we not…discuss this incident with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Ha! Thank God for propriety’s iron rules. Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her. “Why should I remain silent? I’ve done nothing wrong. I was merely looking for cigars, remember?”
Alarm flickered in her lovely eyes. “You know the tale would do neither of us credit.”
“I really don’t see why
I
have anything to be ashamed of—”
“Blast it, Mr. Brennan, if you tell him—”
“Very well, I suppose I can indulge you.” He shouldn’t torment her so, especially when he, too, preferred that her father never hear of this little incident. “And since I seem to be playing the proper gentleman for once, I’ll put an end to our improper meeting. Good night, my lady.”
“Good night, Mr. Brennan. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.” With a stubborn set to her face, she stood there waiting. For him to leave, no doubt. Clearly she was taking no chances. Once he departed, she’d probably scurry about to check if anything were missing. And when she left, she’d lock the door behind her. He’d discover nothing tonight.
But he’d return another time, for it was clear she was hiding something, and he meant to find out
what. “All right. Until breakfast.” He started for the door, then paused and turned back as an overwhelming urge to have the last word seized him. “By the way, your line about the ‘iron tongue of midnight’? It’s from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”
As her startled gaze fixed on him, he added, “So you see, I don’t only memorize ‘those lines of great literature suitable for deceiving women,’ as you put it. In fact, I remember very well the rest of the passage.” Very softly, he quoted, “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time./I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn/As much as we this night have overwatch’d.’”
When his mention of lovers provoked yet another blush in those cheeks, a fierce satisfaction warmed his blood. Yes, the Amazon could be bested after all, and he’d found the way to do it. “While our ‘fairy time’ has been…er…enlightening, we’ve definitely ‘overwatch’d’ the night, Lady Rosalind. So you may wish to take care you don’t ‘outsleep the coming morn’ and arrive late for breakfast tomorrow.”
He flashed her a mocking smile. “Because if I arrive first, I’ll be tempted to explain just why you are so late. And I have a suspicion that your family—particularly your father—would not approve.”
Zounds! I have been five minutes too late all my life-time
.
Hannah Cowley, English playwright
, The Belle’s Stratagem
A
fter the maid finished helping her dress the next morning, Rosalind paced her room in the same state of agitation possessing her ever since Mr. Brennan had exited the study last night.
He’d as good as threatened her! Him—a man of affairs! Did he actually believe she’d quake in her boots for fear that he’d tell Papa what had happened? If he did, he was a fool.
She sniffed as she picked up her best lace shawl, tossed it about her shoulders, then headed toward the door. Let that scoundrel say what he wanted to Papa. She didn’t care in the least. She’d simply go down to breakfast and continue about her business the rest of the day. No Irishman with devil-may-
care looks and a running footman’s well-formed body could frighten her. No, indeed.
And if he did speak to Papa? Then she’d reveal how the man had been snooping about in the desk, and Papa would laud her diligence.
Well, unless Mr. Brennan mentioned her…flimsy attire.
Scowling, she halted at the door, then turned back into the room. Papa wouldn’t approve, to be sure. The curst Mr. Brennan had guessed aright on that particular.
Once more she felt the heat of a whisper against her ear—
Never challenge a thief, my lady, unless you are well prepared to best him
.
Blast! Mr. Brennan clearly realized that Papa wouldn’t overlook this, especially after hearing the entire story—how the insolent man had dragged her hard against his body and steadied her with a broad hand too intimately placed on her belly, prompting the strangest whirligig sensation in that vicinity. How the heat of his hand had seared her through her wrapper and chemise…
Heat now seared her cheeks, too, launching her into a quicker pace about the room. That blackguard even had her blushing, for pity’s sake! It was too much to be borne—this absurd reaction to him! It made no sense. Men of affairs weren’t supposed to provoke such feelings in a woman.
But then, men of affairs were supposed to wear spectacles and cough a great deal. They were supposed to smell of dust and ink and moldy paper. They should be spidery men, all arms and legs and bulging eyes, like Papa’s man of affairs.
They most certainly shouldn’t be constructed of solid steel, sleek and hard as her ancestor’s sword. They shouldn’t smell of woodsmoke and leather or
have eyes so blue that even with spectacles they’d be intoxicating.
She sank onto the bed and absently stroked the jade green damask, only a shade less bright than the stripes of the dress she wore today—her favorite. Mr. Brennan’s rakish air and deft ability to disarm her made her wonder. Could he be one of Mr. Knighton’s smuggling companions, brought here to tally up the estate’s valuables before Papa was even in the grave? Yes, that must be it.
Yet how odd that he knew Shakespeare. It seemed unlikely that a smuggler would read
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. On the other hand, as Shakespeare wrote, “the Devil can cite scripture for his purpose,” so why couldn’t the Devil cite Shakespeare?
There was also his skulking about to consider—she didn’t quite believe his tale about the cigars. What if he had indeed been searching for Papa’s private papers?
Sliding to the foot of her bed, she opened her wooden trunk to check on the strongbox. Thank God Mr. Brennan hadn’t had time to find it last night. As she studied its heavy padlock, her curiosity blossomed. Its contents certainly seemed important to both Papa and Mr. Brennan’s employer, who no doubt had put the man up to searching the desk in the first place.
Well, if finding the box was Mr. Brennan’s task, she would prevent him from succeeding. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight, no matter what the consequences. Even if he wasn’t looking for it, knowing her enemy couldn’t hurt her. Mr. Brennan might unwittingly provide evidence of his employer’s poor character that she could use in convincing Juliet to defy Papa. Surely Papa would never force Juliet into marriage if the girl truly didn’t wish it.
She shoved the trunk lid shut. Yes, that would be her plan—to unravel the men’s secrets and thus win this battle.
With renewed determination, she rose and swept toward the door. Let Mr. Brennan say what he would at breakfast. She’d counter every accusation with one of her own. He wouldn’t best her—no indeed.
Hurrying from her room, she nearly collided with Juliet, who was coming up the hall. As Juliet’s gaze swung to her, the girl blanched. “R-Rosalind?”
“Good morning, dear. Headed down for breakfast?”
“Yes.” Juliet eyed her anxiously. “Y-You aren’t furious at me?”
“For what?” She paused. “Oh, yes, for locking me in Papa’s room.” Her encounter with Mr. Brennan had blotted it right out of her mind.
“I’m so sorry I did it,” Juliet whispered, pleating the skirt of her lemony satin gown with nervous fingers. “Are you very angry?”
How could she rail at the girl when the poor dear looked so remorseful? “Not anymore. You
thought
you were doing the right thing.”
“I did! Truly, I did.” Turning, Juliet lifted her skirts and walked toward the stairs. “I know Mr. Knighton’s past concerns you, but it isn’t as if he were a smuggler himself. And anyway, Papa says it was a long time ago. There are worse things he could have been—like a drunkard or a rakehell or a friend of that awful Lord Byron.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes, but Juliet did have a point. Mrs. Inchbald’s letters hadn’t mentioned any character traits that would make the man a poor husband. Nonetheless….
“You won’t rail at Mr. Knighton about the smuggling, will you?” Juliet went on.
“Really, Juliet, I’d never be rude to a guest.” Not rude enough to send him running to Papa, in any case. She didn’t want to earn another evening locked away.
A sunny smile transformed her sister’s features. “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. I don’t like it when we’re at odds. It’s quite vexing.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, and meant it. After Mama had died bearing Juliet, Rosalind and Helena had tried as best they could to take their mother’s place. At six and nine years old respectively, they’d coddled Juliet with great affection. They still did.
She was everyone’s darling—and with good reason. At seventeen, the girl already possessed a stunning figure and rich hair of spun gold. The three of them all had the Laverick hazel eyes, but Juliet’s shone as green as brilliant emeralds when she wore the right color. Rosalind’s more often bore a strong resemblance to that dull moss growing on the trees in the deer park, no matter what color she wore. Juliet was far too pretty for an unsavory character like Mr. Knighton.
“So,” Rosalind remarked, as they approached the stairs, “what do you think of our cousin? What can I expect?”
Ducking her head, Juliet hurried down. “He’s nice. Very gentlemanly.”
Eyes narrowing, Rosalind hastened after her sister. “You liked him, did you?”
Juliet shrugged and quickened her pace.
“Then you did not.” Aha! Perhaps there’d be no need to expose Mr. Knighton’s secrets after all.
“No. I-I mean, yes!” She glided down the stairs like a sleepwalking Lady Macbeth. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s all right, I suppose.”
Rosalind caught up with her and stayed her with one hand. “But something about him troubles you.”
When Juliet started to protest, Rosalind pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t pretend with me, dearest. Your face is as easy to read as a child’s primer.”
That was the wrong thing to say. “I’m not a child,” Juliet retorted in a hurt tone, “and nothing is troubling me. I can do this. Truly, I can.”
She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. Rosalind sighed as the girl continued down. When had Juliet become so determined to save Swan Park? For a girl used to floating through life on a dream, she was suddenly very set on martyring herself to Papa’s cause.
You weren’t much older than her when you took on the task of caring for an invalid father, a desperately ill sister, and a failing estate
.
Yes, well, that was different
, she argued with herself.
I had no choice
.
Juliet probably felt the same. With a sigh, Rosalind caught up to her sister, resolving to say no more for now. Perhaps it would work itself out. Perhaps Juliet’s fears would convince her to turn off this disastrous course.
When they reached the lower floor, they fell into a more sedate pace on the balding carpet and headed for the dining room. A man entered the other end of the hall, so tall and solidly built that he blotted out the light from the arched window behind him. After spotting them, he waited at the door to the dining room.