Samantha

  Romping on the floor, both buoyant and panting, were Rascal and Cynthia. They were evidently in the middle of a competitive bid for Cynthia's stocking, one end of which was tightly clenched in Cynthia's hand, the other firmly fixed between Rascal's small but effective teeth.

  "I'd let you have it, honestly," Cynthia was promising between chuckles. "But it's my best pair. Can I substitute a different one, perhaps?"

  Rascal wagged his tail cheerfully, but made no attempt to relinquish the garment.

  "Don't humor him, Cynthia." Sammy climbed out of bed. "He's entirely too spoiled as it is." She snapped her fingers. "Drop it!"

  Rascal eyed Sammy, apparently debating which meant more, his mistress's affection or his new possession. The decision, thankfully, never needed to be made.

  "Oh, you're awake, my lady." Millie pressed open the door and inched in, carrying a tray of hot chocolate and scones.

  Seeing his opportunity, Rascal bolted down the hallway, stocking in mouth.

  "I'm sorry, Cynthia." Sammy rolled her eyes to the heavens. "Rascal is well-named—he's still as devilish as the day I got him."

  "He's precious."

  "He's impossible." Sammy sighed. "But luckily for him, I happen to adore him. I'll replace your stockings."

  "Pardon me, my lady . . ." Millie still hovered in the doorway, looking bewilderedly from the fleeing pup to his mistress. "I brought your breakfast—Cook thought you'd be tired after your evening at the opera. But I didn't know you had a guest. I have only enough for one."

  "It's not your fault, Millie," Sammy hastened to assure her. "Cynthia spent the night unexpectedly." Already Millie's eyes were growing suspiciously damp. The last thing Sammy needed right now was for her maid to dissolve into a customary round of tears. "This is my friend, Cynthia. Cynthia, this is Millie"—Sammy shot Cynthia a meaningful look—"my lady's maid."

  Cynthia nodded her understanding. "Nice to meet you, Millie." Millie curtsied, nearly upsetting the tray. "Oh dear!" She steadied the rattling china and sped across the room to deposit the tray on Sammy's nightstand. "I'll get more," she blurted, backing from the room. "Food, I mean. I'll only be a moment. I'll be right back. It's nice to meet you, too, ma'am." Like a terrified rabbit, she bolted.

  "Do you see what I mean?" Sammy asked, noting the spark of amusement in Cynthia's eyes.

  "I do."

  "Well, we'll soon remedy that. After breakfast, you and I will talk to Smitty and everything will be resolved."

  "Surely you don't think I should go with you to consult your guardian."

  "Why not? It's your life we're discussing."

  "But I'm just—"

  "You're not just anything, Cynthia." Sammy seized her new friend's hand, dragging her over to the looking glass. "You're a beautiful, sensitive woman who's been scandalously mistreated. Stop demeaning yourself—I won't have it."

  Cynthia stared at her reflection, her dark eyes wide, vulnerable. The pristine nightrail Samantha had loaned her billowed about her slender form, seeming to mock her by its very presence. Her masses of wheat-colored hair were disheveled, draped about her shoulders. How did she look?

  Like a whore.

  Unable to bear the shame, Cynthia lowered her eyes. "It's ironic. What happened to me wasn't my fault, and I know it. I despise the man responsible, and all the men who have followed in his wake. But when all is said and done, they've managed to reduce me to exactly what they believe me to be—a common prostitute." She wrapped her arms about herself and averted her head. "The only emotion left inside me is enmity; I hate them ... and I hate myself."

  "You saved my life," Sammy returned in an unsteady voice. "Not many women would have risked their own safety to protect a total stranger. How can you doubt your worth?"

  "Women judge other women differently than men judge them, Samantha. And since it's men's opinions that matter, I'm unworthy for any decent life, and unfit company for you."

  "Not all men think like that."

  "I beg to differ with you, my naive friend. Men relegate women to two varieties, each separate, but necessary: a chaste paragon on their arm and a skillful whore in their bed. No woman can be both."

  "Drake's not like that. He loves Alex."

  "And keeps only unto her?" Cynthia returned sardonically.

  "Yes."

  "You're a fool."

  "You're wrong."

  Cynthia gave a shiver of distaste. "I can't imagine ever marrying. Why would any woman choose to condemn herself to a lifetime in her husband's bed, subjecting herself to his lust, night after night?"

  "Alex says making love is wonderful."

  "Making love?" Cynthia gave a bitter laugh. "Is that what you call it?"

  "When you care for someone, yes." Sammy perched on the edge of her bed. "You're right about my being naive, Cynthia. I am. I don't profess to knowing firsthand what it's like to lie with a man. But I do know that when you're in love, you merge with your hearts as well as your bodies. You join in passion and tenderness, not lust. I see the wealth of feeling in Drake's eyes when he looks at Alex . . . and in hers when she looks back."

  "Tenderness." Cynthia spoke the word as if it were foreign. She fell silent, her fingers knotting in the folds of her nightrail. "Samantha," she asked suddenly, "that man your earl was sitting with . . . who was he?"

  "What?" Sammy blinked.

  "The other person at the table with Lord Gresham, do you know him?"

  "I don't think so. But then, all I saw was Remington." Sammy pursed her lips, trying to remember. "Now that you mention it, yes, I do recall another gentleman. He didn't look familiar ... at least not from the quick look I got. Why?"

  "Oh, he and the earl seemed mismatched, that's all. I would never have suspected they'd be friends."

  "Are you certain they were?"

  "Yes. They were far too relaxed and informal with each other to be anything less." She paused. "His name was Boyd . . . Boyd Hayword."

  "Boyd? Oh! He must be the tavern keeper of the establishment where I met Remington. It's called Boydry's. I seem to recall a stocky man serving drinks when I first dashed in out of the rain. It was probably he." Sammy studied Cynthia thoughtfully. "Did the two of you speak?"

  "Only briefly." Again Cynthia averted her eyes. "What on earth am I going to wear to meet your guardian?"

  "Don't worry, we'll find something." An inner voice told Sammy to drop the subject of Boyd, at least for now. Rising, she went to the wardrobe and began browsing through her morning dresses, determined to give Cynthia's battered trust some time to heal. But Sammy was wise enough—and perhaps objective enough—to understand that Cynthia needed far more than mere time in order to truly recover from her devastating scars; she needed love.

  "This gown is perfect." Sammy flourished a modest, Devonshire brown morning dress.

  "Oh, I couldn't!"

  "Of course you could. It's far too muted for my coloring anyway—it makes me look drab and melancholy. On you— with your pale skin and light hair—it will look magnificent!"

  "But I should wear a uniform or—"

  "You will." Sammy grinned. "After we procure your new position. To that end, let's impress Smitty with your breeding and beauty—it makes every heroine that much more appealing." Wisely, Sammy indicated the row of Gothic romances lined up beside the window. "Now let's hurry and don our clothes before Millie returns. Who knows? If we manage to dress ourselves without her assistance, we might even see Smitty before nightfall."

  "Good morning, Smitty."

  Cheerfully, Sammy tugged Cynthia into the sitting room where Smitty was worriedly pacing.

  "Lady Samantha—your maid said you wished to see me. Is anything amiss ... ?" His voice trailed off as he saw the woman standing beside his charge.

  "To the contrary." Impatient to set things right, Sammy blasted into her story. "Smitty, this fine young lady"—she thrust Cynthia forward—"is the answer to all our problems."

  Smitty's brows rose. "I wasn't aware we had any problems."


  "That's because I've spared you—and Aunt Gertie—the distressful details."

  "What details?"

  "Millie, She hates it here. And, quite frankly, she's a horrendous lady's maid. It's not her fault, of course. She wasn't trained to attend the family, only to assist the other servants. Still, I couldn't honor her request for reinstatement at Aunt Gertie's Hampshire manor—not until I had a suitable replacement. Well, now I do." Pausing only to gulp in some air, Sammy raced on, "Smitty, this is Cynthia . . ." She hesitated, glancing quizzically at her new friend.

  "Aldin," Cynthia supplied in a whisper.

  "Miss Aldin." In what was fast becoming a habit this Season, Smitty withdrew his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

  "Cynthia and I met at Covent Garden last night. I believe it was fate."

  "Fate?"

  "Yes . . . you see, not only do we need Cynthia, but she needs us as well. So, it's perfect."

  "Where are you from, Miss Aldin?" Smitty inquired politely, trying in vain to make some sense of the conversation.

  "From just outside London, sir."

  "Cynthia is highly educated; she was trained to be a governess."

  "Then why is she seeking employment as a lady's maid?"

  It was the question Cynthia had dreaded and Sammy had anticipated. With all the gentle sincerity in her heart, Sammy addressed it.

  "When Cynthia and I met, all she was seeking was solace. I was the one who insisted she come home with me. You see, Smitty, her previous employer insulted and mistreated her. I won't even mention the unspeakable advances he made, nor the subsequent damage he did to her reputation. Suffice it to say she was horribly, horribly wronged . . . and it's up to us to make it right." Sammy's eyes pleaded her case. "I told her how kind you were, how mortified you'd be that an innocent woman could be so ill-used. And I offered her a position as my lady's maid. The idea was totally mine, not hers."

  Smitty did indeed look mortified. "I'm appalled that Miss Aldin has been subjected to such abuse," he began. "However, my lady, I must point out—"

  "She saved my life."

  That stopped him. "Pardon me?"

  "She saved my life." Sammy's mind was racing as she desperately sought a way to tell Smitty the truth, without implicating both Cynthia and herself. "When the opera concluded, Lord Gresham went to arrange for his phaeton to be brought around. I grew impatient and strolled off."

  "Alone?" Smitty looked ill.

  "Yes. 'Twas stupid, I know, especially in light of what occurred. I was accosted by a band of ruffians. Heaven only knows what they intended—"

  "Where was the earl?" Smitty interrupted in a croak.

  "He had no notion of my whereabouts." That much was indeed true. "As luck would have it, Cynthia was walking nearby, grappling with the bleakness of her future, when she heard my muffled calls for help. She interceded, made enough of a scene for the scoundrels to panic and flee." Sammy's shudder was as genuine as her next words. "I hate to think what my fate would have been had she not arrived."

  Smitty swallowed convulsively. "Miss Aldin . . . you have my heartfelt gratitude." He bowed. "It would be an honor to have you stay on as Lady Samantha's personal lady's maid."

  "Sir," Cynthia rubbed her damp palms together, "I feel you should know that, given the circumstances, I have no references."

  "I've just received the only reference I need." Smitty's voice was gruff with emotion.

  "Thank you, sir ... I promise you won't be sorry."

  Sammy was less formal, throwing her arms around Smitty's neck. "Thank you," she whispered. "Oh . . . Smitty?" she said in a normal tone. "Will you speak to Aunt Gertrude for us? That way I can go tell Millie the wonderful news right away, and help her pack. Cynthia spent last night on my settee. I'm sure she'd prefer moving into her own room."

  A twinkle of amusement flashed in Smitty's eyes. "I'll speak to your aunt, my lady. As for young Millie, I'm certain you'll have her on her way in less than an hour."

  Fifty minutes later Millie was hastened into a waiting carriage, still calling thank-yous over her shoulder as the horses sped off for Hampshire.

  "Done," Sammy announced, closing the door behind her. "Now let's get you settled."

  "Do you always do things this way?" Cynthia asked as they climbed the stairs.

  "What way?"

  "Like a tempest. A delightful tempest, mind you, but a tempest just the same."

  Sammy flashed Cynthia an impish grin. "Yes."

  "I was afraid of that."

  "We have two days to get you accustomed to your new position. Monday night you'll make your first official appearance as my chaperon."

  "Monday night?"

  "Yes ... we're going to Vauxhall."

  "Who is 'we'?"

  "You, Remington, and I."

  Cynthia halted on the second floor landing. "You're not serious."

  "Of course I am. You're my companion, remember? Certainly you didn't think my escort and I would be permitted to go out alone, unchaperoned? Why, Millie accompanied me everywhere."

  "That's not the point, Samantha. Lord Gresham knows who—what I am. He met me at Annie's."

  "Good. Then when he realizes you've abandoned Annie's in favor of my more desirable company, perhaps he'll do the same. Besides"—Sammy placed a conspiratorial finger across her lips—"you'll be overseeing us only as long as it takes to quiet the tongues of Vauxhall's gossips."

  "You're not thinking of going off alone with him, are you?" Seeing the triumphant expression on Sammy's face, Cynthia shook her head emphatically. "You're making a big mistake, Samantha. I mean it. You're playing a dangerous game . . . with rules you don't even know."

  "Remington wouldn't hurt me."

  "He would and he will."

  "Then you'll just have to come along."

  "So I can protect you?"

  "No, so I can prove you wrong."

  Vauxhall's thousands of colored lamps illuminated the grove and its surrounding pavilions, bathing the gardens in an ethereal glow.

  Sammy had never seen anything more romantic in her life.

  "Oh ..." she breathed, alighting from the carriage. "It's breathtaking. And listen! The concert is under way—do you hear the musicians?"

  "Yes, imp, I hear them." Tenderly, Rem tucked Sammy's arm through his. In truth, he was having trouble concentrating on anything but Samantha. She'd pervaded his thoughts since Friday, eclipsing everything—even his mission— from view. It was frightening. To lose his focus would be insane. Yet, deny it though he would, Rem could feel himself weakening, unable to recall that his sole purpose for pursuing Samantha was to discover how much she knew about the disappearing ships.

  If the pull between them continued to intensify, his mission and Samantha's innocence would both be in jeopardy. Rem was acutely aware of the disastrous possibilities, just as he was aware that he was all wrong for Samantha, that what she needed wasn't inside him to give. But, God help him, he couldn't stay away. And now, immersed in her beauty, watching the rapturous expression on her face, he wondered if he even wanted to try.

  Rem cleared his throat, but not his head. "Millie is still in the back seat of the carriage. I'll help her alight. Then we can get some punch and go for a stroll."

  His words snapped Sammy out of her reverie. "Millie's gone," she blurted out.

  "What?"

  "She's gone. I sent her back to Hampshire. She hated it here."

  Rem's brows drew together in puzzlement. "Well then, what specter darted into the rear of my carriage just before we departed?"

  "My new lady's maid."

  "Oh. Fine. Then I'll help your new lady's maid alight." With a mock bow, Rem turned back and extended his hand.

  Cynthia climbed down unassisted. Raising her chin, she met Rem's gaze with a combination of cynicism and resignation.

  "Remington, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, Lord Gresham."

  "My lord." Without averting her eyes, Cynthia curtsied.

  Recognition was i
nstantaneous, even before Rem heard the name, "Cynthia," he repeated, nodding politely.

  "Yes, I was very fortunate to find Cynthia," Sammy continued, watching Rem's expression. "She was unhappy at her previous position. I hope she'll find this new one more to her liking."

  "I see." Years of training served Rem in good stead. Not a flicker of surprise or censure registered on his face, in his voice. "Well then, shall we?" Once again he offered Sammy his arm.

  Sammy sensed Rem's change in mood immediately, and her heart sank. Was he upset because she had hired a courtesan to be her maid, or because she wasn't more like one herself?

  "Are you thirsty, imp?"

  "Yes, I suppose."

  Gently, he caressed her cheek. "Don't sound so forlorn. Vauxhall boasts an abundance of punch." He gestured toward the closest pavilion. "I'll be but a moment."

  "He recognized me," Cynthia said, the instant she and Sammy were alone.

  "Of course he did. Did you doubt it? Now, hurry."

  "Hurry?"

  "Yes. Wander off by yourself—quickly, before Remington returns. I want some time alone with him."

  "Samantha—"

  "Cynthia," Sammy's chin set stubbornly, "I know you have my best interests at heart. But it's my heart I must listen to, not yours. Please . . . go."

  Still Cynthia hesitated. "If you need me, call out. I'll race back and—"

  "I won't need you."

  There was nothing more Cynthia could do but comply. "All right." With a resigned sigh, she turned and walked away.

  "Where is your new maid?" Rem's deep baritone reached Sammy's ears a scant moment later. Handing Sammy a cup of punch, he scanned the area.

  "I asked her to leave us alone."

  His dimple flashed. "Did you? In those words?"

  "Yes."

  "And now that we're alone?"

  "I'd like to go wherever it's most private."

  "Samantha . .."

  "I want to enjoy your company, Remington ... to talk."

  He brought her fingers to his lips. "Whenever you and I are alone, talking is the farthest thing from my mind. I can't promise this time will be any different."

  She smiled. "I'm glad."

  Lover's Path was wickedly deserted, the fragrant aroma of the garden their only companion.