Prince of Swords

  At least Freddie Arbuthnot would accompany him on the rain-soaked journey, and they could while away the trip with a few hands of cards. Of course, he’d have to let Freddie win enough to continue gaming, but subterfuge was hardly beyond Alistair’s capabilities. As long as Freddie didn’t go on too much about his intended’s dubious virtues.

  It wasn’t as if Freddie were truly enamored of the very wealthy Miss Ermintrude Winters. He was madly in love with her sixty thousand pounds a year, however, and by extolling her attractions, he obviously hoped to convince himself of the felicity of his hoped-for union. This house party was to put the seal on his ongoing courtship—Ermintrude’s father had looked upon his suit with favor, and the exacting heiress seemed to consider Freddie’s witless charm appealing.

  Which would leave Alistair free to pursue Jessamine. Whether he would simply endeavor to convince her of his guileless innocence, or seduce her into not caring, was a question still to be decided. The second tack was preferable, but fraught with danger. And Alistair knew himself well enough to realize it was the danger that appealed almost as greatly as Miss Maitland herself.

  There was a damp chill in the small, elegant house, brought on by the rain and the fact that he’d dismissed his servants for the week, knowing he’d be gone. It reminded him of his childhood. The drafty halls of Glenshiel Abbey, the damp loneliness of the east wing with only his tutor for company. A sudden sweep of pain rushed over him, and he shivered, clenching his hands so tightly they broke the delicate chicken-skin fan he used for comic effect. At the moment he didn’t feel particularly comic.

  The anger that flared up deep inside him was almost painful. He wasn’t ready to consider where that anger came from, but he knew where he could direct it. Toward the busybody, entrancing Miss Maitland, who would deserve the very thorough seduction she was about to receive. And would, in her dotage, look back upon the memory with fond pleasure.

  He seldom spent his time seducing virtuous young women, but he had little doubt he could accomplish the task. Particularly since she’d shown herself such an apt pupil when he’d kissed her in Isolde Plumworthy’s parlor. The memory, the taste of that kiss, immediately made him hard, and he found his anger had fled, replaced with a wry smile. The thought of Miss Maitland continued to have that decidedly adolescent effect on his anatomy. If he didn’t take pains to render himself resistant, the house party could prove quite an embarrassment.

  “Halloo? Anyone home?” Freddie called from the hallway. He spied Alistair through the gloom. “What in God’s name are you doing, moping around in the darkness, Alistair? It’s not like you. Where are the servants?”

  Alistair donned his indolent charm like a discarded cloak, crossing the dark room into the pool of light. “They’ve abandoned me, Freddie,” he murmured. “You’re late.”

  “Demme, it’s an indecent hour,” Freddie protested. “I don’t see why we can’t drive at a leisurely pace, stop along the way, and arrive there tomorrow.”

  “You’d best get used to the parson’s mousetrap, Freddie. If you want all of Miss Winters’s lovely money to play with, you’re going to have to let her call the tune. And she wants you there today.”

  Freddie snorted, obviously not sure the heiress’s tidy portion was worth an early rising. “Well, let’s not stand about discussing it. If we have to go at such a godforsaken hour, let’s be off.” He looked suddenly abashed. “Beg pardon, Alistair. I forgot you were doing this for me. It was demmed kind of you to offer to keep me company. Not quite sure of Ermintrude yet, and I could use your support.”

  Alistair smiled faintly, forebearing to mention the irresistible presence of Jessamine Maitland. Not that Freddie would have the faintest idea that Alistair would be interested. She was hardly Alistair’s usual sort of inamorata. “Glad to be of assistance, Freddie,” he said. “Besides, I could use a little rustication.”

  Freddie, never a lover of rural pleasures, looked even more gloomy. “Quite so,” he said under his breath. “And if Ermintrude turns down my suit, we could always leave early.” He looked marginally more cheerful at the notion.

  “Leaving you with Lady Elizabeth Marshall as your only other marital possibility,” Alistair pointed out.

  Freddie shuddered. The sour and portly Lady Elizabeth made Ermintrude Winters appear to be a diamond of the first water. “Kent isn’t that countrified,” he said hopefully. “She’ll have me, won’t she, Alistair?”

  “She’d be a fool not to,” he said gently. Freddie was an exceedingly feckless, foolish young man, in many ways reminding Alistair of his brother. So far Freddie had resisted the lure of heavy drinking, but his gaming was already dangerously deep, and he needed a wife to settle him, a rich wife to keep him, and a horde of noisy children to distract him.

  If only everyone’s life could be so easily settled, Alistair thought grimly, none of his thoughts showing in his cool, detached expression. “The sooner you come up to scratch, Freddie, the sooner you can cease worrying,” he pointed out. “Shall we to Kent?”

  “To Kent!” Freddie said, reaching for enthusiasm but falling sadly short.

  “To Kent,” Alistair murmured. “And all the pleasures that there await us.”

  Nine

  The weather didn’t improve during the seemingly endless trip to Sevenoaks. Fleur was fortunate enough to fall asleep, Robert Brennan leaned back and closed his eyes, but Jessamine wasn’t fooled. In his own way, he was as alert as Josiah Clegg. Perhaps that was a necessity for thief-takers. It made sense—if you were ever alert, no one could sneak up behind you.

  The poorly sprung carriage went over a bump, and Jessamine found herself tossed against the thin cushions with a resounding thump. Fleur slept on, the sleep of the innocent, but Brennan opened his eyes.

  “It was kind of Mrs. Blaine to send us the coach,” he observed pleasantly in a voice pitched low so as not to wake her sister.

  Jess looked around her. It was, in truth, a horrid coach, made for transporting servants and poor relations. The squabs were thin, and the wind and rain blasted through the windows. Either Sally Blaine was less well-to-do than Ermintrude had suggested, or the coach was a deliberate snub. Jessamine had the melancholy suspicion it was the latter, and her dread of the upcoming visit grew.

  “Very kind,” she said absently, stroking the cheap material.

  Silence filled the carriage once more, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the clop of the horses in the heavy rain. For a moment Jessamine thought she too might sleep, until Robert Brennan cleared his throat.

  “I’m a man who prefers plain speaking, miss,” he said calmly enough. “And you’re a lady who’s more observant than most. I’d say you’ve guessed that your sister and I were previously acquainted.”

  It was only a slight knot in her stomach, Jessamine thought, keeping a calm expression on her face. She’d survive. “I suspected as much,” she replied, surreptitiously putting a hand on her stomach.

  “I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression,” he continued in a soft voice as Fleur slept on. “I know my place, Miss Maitland. You needn’t fear anything from me.”

  She looked at him steadily. “What is your place, Mr. Brennan?”

  “I’m a thief-taker, Miss Maitland. Born a farmer, and I’ll die a farmer, but in the middle I’ve spent a few years seeing things you couldn’t even imagine. Your sister is a lady. She’ll marry well and have a good life, and I wish her the best.”

  “Mr. Brennan—” she began, uncertain what to say.

  “Pay me no mind, Miss Maitland. I just didn’t want you to worry about something that will never, ever happen. I’m from another world, and I know that. I was sent to keep you and others safe. And you are safe, miss. Have no fear of that.”

  She looked into his strong, calm face. He was a good man, far more worthy than a thousand Cleggs put together. More decent than the undoubtedly decadent Earl of Glenshiel, kinder than anyone she’d met in years.

  “Mr. Brennan,” she
said gently, “I hope and pray my sister marries a wealthy, titled gentleman who is exactly like you.”

  He smiled at her kindly. “I do too, miss.”

  Their arrival at Blaine Manor confirmed Jessamine’s worst fears. Sally Blaine’s coachman deposited them at a side entrance, with no covering from the heavy rain. They found their way into a dank, ill-lit hallway, only to be met by a sour-looking woman who could only be the housekeeper.

  She looked at the rain-bedraggled trio and sniffed. “You there,” she said to Brennan. “One of the footmen will show you to the kitchen. Your colleagues are there, eating up cook’s best tea cakes.” Her disapproving gaze slid over Jessamine and her sister, and instinctively Jess put her arm around Fleur, feeling her faint shiver. “I’ll show you to your room.” There was no missing the grudging tone in her voice.

  Jessamine steeled herself. “And where is Mrs. Blaine? I should like to greet my hostess.”

  “She’s busy with her guests,” the woman said shortly, making it abundantly clear that that category did not include the Maitlands. “She’ll see you when she has time. Follow me.” She started up a narrow flight of stairs.

  Jessamine managed a soothing smile for her sister as she tucked her arm through hers. “Don’t worry, Fleur,” she said softly, “I’ll sort everything out. In the meantime, I think we want to get out of our wet clothes, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Jess,” Fleur said. She glanced back toward Brennan, who stood waiting in the hallway, a troubled expression on his face. “Thank you for your company, Mr. Brennan,” she said in her soft, lovely voice.

  “My pleasure, miss,” he said stolidly.

  “Come along!” The voice that floated from down the narrow stairs sounded more like a schoolmarm’s than a housekeeper’s. With a fleeting smile in Brennan’s direction, the two sisters began to climb the narrow stairs.

  By that time Jessamine had lost most of her illusions, so it came as no surprise to find the chilly, uncarpeted hallway stretching out before them.

  The woman was standing outside one plain, dark door. “I’m Mrs. Jolly,” she informed them, and it was all Jessamine could do to keep a straight face at the ill-fitting name. “Housekeeper to Mrs. Blaine. My room’s right down the hall from this one, and I’ll thank you not to disturb me. I work hard and I need my rest.” Her mean eyes narrowed. “Where are your bags?”

  “In the hallway,” Jess said serenely. “Waiting for a servant to bring them up.”

  “Saucy,” Mrs. Jolly muttered under her breath.

  “And we’ll need hot baths, and someone to help us unpack,” Jessamine continued smoothly, determined not to be cowed.

  The housekeeper pushed open the door, exposing a small, cold room with one narrow bed, a washstand, and not much else. There were no hangings on the window, and the bedlinen lay folded neatly on the bare mattress. “I wouldn’t be counting on it, miss. This is a busy household this week—we don’t have time for any extra work.” She started away from them, but to Jess’s surprise, Fleur spoke up, her soft voice firm.

  “And when shall we be joining Mrs. Blaine?”

  “That’s up to her. You’ll be having dinner brought to your room for the time being. You’ll be informed when you’re needed.” Without another word she left them, sodden, angry, standing in the drafty hallway.

  “I suspect,” Fleur said quietly, “that I’m not about to meet my future husband this week.”

  “I’m going to kill Ermintrude Winters,” Jessamine said fiercely. “I’m going to strangle her with my bare hands, and then I’m going to strangle her sister as well.”

  “I’d really prefer you didn’t, darling,” Fleur said in a weak attempt at humor. “I wouldn’t want Mr. Brennan to arrest you.”

  “It would be quite convenient for him,” Jessamine replied. “The culprit would be caught red-handed, and there wouldn’t even be a need for a chase.”

  “But I wouldn’t like it. I was awake, you know, when you were talking about me.”

  “I suspected as much,” Jessamine said. “You aren’t very good at fooling me. Do you have any... feelings for Mr. Brennan?”

  “Feelings?” Fleur echoed with an airy laugh, stepping into the small, dank room. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jess.”

  “He’s very handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way,” Jessamine offered, closing the door behind them.

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed. I’m grateful for his company, as I’m sure you are. And I have the morbid suspicion that he’s going to be the last friendly face we see all week. Nevertheless, he’s not of our world,” she said firmly. “And apart from gratitude, I have no feelings for him whatsoever.”

  It was a flat-out, bald-faced lie, but Jessamine made the wise decision not to call her on it. She looked around the pitiful little bedroom. “I doubt his world can be that far removed from our current circumstances,” she said gloomily, dropping down on the bed. The mattress was thin and hard and gave off a peculiar odor. “I’m sorry I brought you here, Fleur. Sorry I got you full of hopes.”

  Fleur sank down beside her and put her arm around Jessamine’s waist. “It’s not your fault, Jess,” she said fiercely. “Couldn’t we just leave? Say we were called back to London by our ailing mother?”

  “They would know we’d received no such message. And if this is any example of Sally Blaine’s hospitality, I imagine we’d be lucky to catch a ride in the back of a farmer’s wagon.”

  “You know,” Fleur confessed, “I’ve always wanted to ride in a farmer’s wagon. When I was little I wanted to be a farmer’s wife.”

  And Jessamine, who thought her spirits couldn’t sink any lower, burst into tears.

  The Cat was on the prowl. Not that Alistair had the slightest intention of helping himself to any of Sally Blaine’s tawdry jewels. For one thing, they were not only hideous, but second rate, the gemstones flawed and poorly hued. For another, it would have set his plan awry. He had come to this wretched little house party with the sole intention of diverting any possible suspicion away from himself.

  He merely liked to know the lay of the land, so to speak, in case he was called upon to make a quick escape.

  And, he had to admit, it wasn’t quite his sole purpose. He was still awaiting, with growing impatience, the arrival of Jessamine Maitland. He had every intention of whiling away his time flirting with her, of stripping her of her doubts, her wariness, her inhibitions, and her clothing in short order. He couldn’t remember when he’d last wanted a woman so badly, and her very lack of pretension to matchless beauty seemed only to fire him more.

  In the meantime, though, he was restless and irritable. Sally Blaine’s guests had nothing to talk of but horses and hunting, subjects that grew stale quickly. Freddie was doing his damnedest to fix his interest with Ermintrude Winters, a task that filled Alistair with sympathetic horror, and his hostess herself had a tendency to place her hand on his knee when her husband was oblivious, which seemed to be most of the time.

  If things grew any more tedious, he was tempted to say the hell with it and make his way back to London no matter how Nicodemus Bottom would scold him. Tyburn Tree was preferable to boredom any day.

  Blaine Manor was singularly lacking in challenge. It was an ell-shaped building, the public and family rooms in the main section of the house, including his own ornate bedchamber, the kitchens and servants’ quarters in the ell. He’d already managed to delve through all the main bedrooms, and the narrow, dimly lit back quarters were small, depressing, and unoccupied. Or at least, most of them were. He could hear the murmur of voices behind one narrow door, and he was ready to beat a hasty retreat, armed with an ingenuous smile and the excuse that he’d gotten lost, when the door opened into the hallway and a vision stepped out, closing it carefully behind her.

  Actually, vision wasn’t quite the word. Jessamine Maitland looked like a drowned rat. Her hair drooped around her pale face, her plain dark dress was sodden, though he could see that it clung quite nicely to her breasts. Her eyes were
red from weeping, and for the moment she didn’t realize that he stood there, watching her. When she looked up and spied him, her expression was one of such horror that it was comical.

  “Oh, God,” she cried, and he wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a cry for help. “It only needed this!”

  “This, I gather, is me?” he replied, moving closer. It was a very narrow hallway, and there was no way she could pass him. She could only turn around and run.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded in tones of deepest loathing.

  “Here as in what am I doing outside what I presume is your bedroom, or here as in Blaine Manor?”

  “Both.” She no longer looked so woebegone, despite the general dampness of her appearance. There was color in her cheeks and a snap in her iridescent eyes, and Alistair realized with distant amusement that he was physically aroused just by her proximity.

  “Why don’t you answer my question first. Who’s in that room? Your lover?” The notion, once entertained, was decidedly unpleasant.

  “Don’t be insulting. My sister. And keep your voice down,” she added in an angry hiss, ignoring the fact that her own tone had been charmingly strident. “We’ve had a long journey and she’s just fallen asleep. I don’t want you to wake her up.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” he said in a soft, low voice like a cat’s purr. “But why is she in a servant’s room?”

  “Clearly because Sally Blaine considers us to be servants,” Jessamine said bitterly. She glanced up at him, backing away slightly. It didn’t take much effort to follow her. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said in an angry undertone.

  “Like what?” he murmured, wondering which part of her body he’d touch first. He wanted to put his mouth against the damp material that covered her breast. He wanted to put his mouth between her legs.