Noble Intentions

  “To say the least,” murmured Noble.

  “Sunderland?” Sir Hugh asked, a look of confusion crossing his face. “The Duke of Sunderland? What has he to do with your mistress?”

  “That is the question, is it not?” Noble said, setting his glass down and stretching his arms high over his head. He still felt drained, but it was an extremely pleasing sensation.

  “You forget, Tolly, Sunderland is a cousin of Noble’s. Spent some time with him at Nethercote, or don’t you remember that? Ah, but that was before your time.”

  “I’m not that much younger than you,” Sir Hugh replied with an angry glance at the marquis. “I remember Sunderland.”

  “No other word on the matter I wrote you about this morning, Harry?”

  Rosse shook his head. “Impossible to trace.”

  “Other matter?” Sir Hugh asked, clearly peevish about being left out.

  Noble gave him a quick accounting of the evening’s shooting, and told Rosse that he had his Bow Street Runners in place.

  “Excellent,” Rosse responded and rose with the others as they started off for the dining room. “With that much protection, I’m sure you need not worry about either Gillian’s or Nick’s welfare.”

  One of the footmen presented Noble with a note on a silver tray as they were about to enter the dining room. He paused for a moment to read it, and then swore loudly.

  Rosse turned back, watching silently as Noble questioned the footman. The man repeatedly shook his head and tried to back away from the enraged earl, but Noble was clearly bent on gleaning what information he could. Finally the man made his escape.

  Rosse raised his brows as Noble turned back to his friends. “Trouble?”

  Noble said nothing but ground his teeth together as he handed the note to his friend. Sir Hugh leaned in to read the note.

  Rosse whistled softly. “This fellow’s really going for blood now, isn’t he?”

  Sir Hugh frowned. “I’m sure it’s all nonsense. Why would anyone have wanted to shoot Lady Weston? Unless…”

  Noble snatched the note back from Rosse’s hand. “There is no ‘unless’ about it. No one would have cause to hurt Gillian except as a means of hurting me.”

  “Hold on now, Noble,” Sir Hugh cried as Noble spun on his heel and demanded his hat and stick. “You’re not thinking clearly; your mind is muddled. There is someone who could want to see her destroyed.”

  Noble stopped so abruptly that the shorter man ran into his back. “Who?” he ground out, not bothering to turn around.

  Sir Hugh danced to the side. “If you just apply your mind to the matter, I’m sure it will become clear, Noble. There’s only one man—or at least there’s only one at this point—with whom your wife has been disporting herse—”

  The words stopped in his throat as Noble spun around and wrapped his hand around the baronet’s neck, lifting him off the ground. “My wife did not disport herself with anyone, Tolly. Is that clear?”

  “Noble, let him down, you’re choking him,” Rosse said, placing a hand on his friend’s arm.

  “Is that clear?” Noble said again, his eyes never leaving Sir Hugh’s face. The baronet’s eyes rolled back, but he managed enough of a nod to satisfy Noble.

  “I will take care of McGregor tomorrow morning,” Noble said, claiming his hat and walking stick and storming out the door.

  “Where are you going now?” Rosse asked, following him to his carriage.

  “Home,” Noble told the coachman grimly and then jumped into the carriage. “I’m going to make sure that bastard hasn’t harmed my wife and son.”

  ***

  The mistresses looked at one another with chagrin.

  “My lady,” Beverly said finally, “that’s…I don’t believe…I’ve never been asked that question by one of my gentlemen’s wives before.”

  The other mistresses nodded.

  “In fact, while we are speaking on the subject, I can honestly say that I’ve never met any of my gentlemen’s wives.”

  The other three mistresses nodded again.

  “It’s just not done.” Charlotte nodded with them. “Bad ton.”

  “Oh, Charlotte, what do you know about it?” Gillian said with a frown at her grinning cousin. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “You asked me.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Ha!”

  “Lady Weston, perhaps if you were to tell us why you’ve asked that so very unusual question, we might better be able to answer it.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s very simple, really. My husband loved his first wife very deeply—”

  Laura gave a ladylike snort of disbelief.

  “I beg your pardon, Laura? Did you say something?”

  “I snorted in disbelief, my lady.”

  “Disbelief? Over something I said?”

  “Yes, my lady. Gentlemen who love their wives very deeply do not keep mistresses.”

  Gillian thought about that.

  “Good point, Mistress Laura,” Charlotte said with approval. “If Lord Weston loved his Elizabeth so very much, Gilly, why did he have a string of ladybirds?”

  Gillian chewed on her lower lip.

  “I saw her once, you know,” Anne piped up. “At Drury Lane. She was in the box of another gentleman.”

  Charlotte leaned forward. “And?”

  “She was…ah…fondling him.”

  Gillian blinked at her in surprise. “Elizabeth? Noble’s Elizabeth? But if she…and if he…he engaged you all…”

  It didn’t make sense; even she, half-witted as she was from a night spent in Noble’s arms, could see that.

  “My understanding is that you wish to know your husband’s favorite…ah…” Madelyn paused and sent a glance toward the enraptured Charlotte.

  “Oh, you can say it in front of her,” Gillian said with a sigh. “She’s blackmailed me into giving her all of the pertinent details. I daresay by now she knows more than all of us combined.”

  “To be forewarned is to be small-armed,” Charlotte said sagely. “Yes, do go on, Madelyn. We’re yearning to know.”

  ***

  The drive to his house was a hellish nightmare. The streets seemed to close up before him, filled with reckless fools who did not know how to handle a coach and four, overturned carts, dogs leaping out and startling the horses, small children dashing hither and yon wherever Noble looked, and any number of other delays that stayed him from the side of his family, where he was most desperately needed.

  He had deployed the three Runners in strategic spots around his house, each with a particular assignment, but upon reading the words now etched indelibly on his mind, he began to think three men were not enough.

  Hell, a small army wouldn’t be enough to protect his beloved Gillian. He thought of how she’d looked that morning when he managed to drag himself from his bed—on her back, her hair cascading a fiery path over the white linens, a rosy glow to her cheeks and a smile on her face as she slept the sleep of the well-loved.

  He made a mental note to have his man purchase more of the Oils of Araby before considering again the problem of that murdering bastard McGregor. Could Harry be right in his suggestion that the real culprit might be someone other than the Scot? And if so, who? Who hated him enough to try to destroy first his marriage and now Gillian?

  Gillian. Just as soon as he made sure she was in good health, he would take her upstairs and introduce her to more of the items on his list. For her security, of course, not for his own base pleasure—if he kept her so exhausted that she was unable to leave his bed, he’d have little worry that McGregor or any other murdering bastard could make good his threat and kill her. It was, after all, his duty to keep her safe, and if this was the only way he could do so…he grinned to himself as he acknowledged that the merits of such a plan were
almost unlimited.

  “Lord Weston!”

  Noble frowned at the footman blocking the door. His door, by God. “Yes, it’s Lord Weston, and he’d like to enter his house. Stand aside, Charles.”

  “But, my lord—we thought you were out for the day.”

  “Well, now I’m home. Is Lady Weston in?”

  Charles blanched and stepped back when Noble pushed past him. Tremayne wandered into the hall, saw the earl, gawked for a moment, and, with a stammered excuse, spun around and dashed for the green baize door.

  Noble frowned. What the devil had bit his servants?

  “Lady Weston?” Noble reminded the pale Charles as he stripped off his hat and gloves.

  “Er…Lady Weston?”

  “Yes. Where is she?”

  Charles swallowed twice and continued to stare at Noble with a chalky face.

  “Are you ill, man?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Excellent. Then you can tell me whether my wife is at home.”

  “Ah…”

  “Yer Lordship! Yer ’ome early!” Crouch shot through the door leading to the servant’s domain so quickly he was forced to grab Noble as he skidded to a halt on the well-polished parquet floor. “Eh, sorry about that, m’lord. I’ll ’ave one of the maids sew that up.”

  Noble glared at the small hole in his sleeve where Crouch’s hook had snagged itself. “Where is my wife?”

  “Yer wife?” Crouch looked confused. “What wife would that be, m’lord?”

  “The same wife who you have, for the past week, been dancing attendance upon. Where is she? Has she gone out?”

  “Well, now, that’s a right good question, m’lord.”

  Noble started toward the staircase. “Is she in the drawing room? Her bedchamber? Her sitting room?”

  Charles made a choking sound and fell over backward in a dead faint.

  “Fellow’s ill; see to him, Crouch.”

  “Aye, m’lord, I’ll do that. Eh—wouldn’t yer lordship prefer sittin’ in yer library while I find yer lady for ye?”

  “I have a feeling it’s better if I find her myself, Crouch,” he replied as he marched up the stairs. He wondered what Gillian had done now to bring out the protective instincts in his staff, then chuckled over the thought. She had endeared herself to them just as quickly as she had to him. Although he couldn’t let them think he supported such a notion, it warmed him to know they would protect her against what they perceived to be his unholy temper. He chuckled again as he turned down the hall toward her sitting room. Surely it would soon become apparent that no matter what outrageous act she committed, no matter what sort of a mess she embroiled herself in, he would bear it all with nary a word to the contrary. What could she possibly do, he asked himself as he opened the door, that could raise his ire now that he knew he loved her?

  “…once pretended that I was a wheelbarrow and he a gardener…oh!”

  Blast it, she had friends paying her a visit. He smiled pleasantly and was about to make a bow when the woman who had been speaking, a chestnut-haired beauty with vivid blue eyes, caught his attention. She looked familiar. She looked very familiar, quite like…dear God, it couldn’t be!

  Noble stared at his former mistress, his mind doing cartwheels as it tried to manufacture a reasonable explanation for what Beverly would be doing in his wife’s sitting room, talking about…wheelbarrows? A groan slipped past his lips as he recalled another time he had been feeling inventive, a most successful invention as far as he was concerned, but not one he wished discussed in front of his wife. Not with his co-inventor, anyway.

  His eyes, feeling like a particularly sticky boiled sweet, swept the room to find her but stopped on the figure next to that of his ex-mistress. Surely that couldn’t be…he closed his eyes and shook his head. No, he was seeing things. Perhaps the wound to his arm had given him a fever and he hadn’t realized it. He must be delirious.

  He opened his eyes again. No, there they were, standing together, Beverly and Laura. By dint of grinding his teeth together and squeezing his hands into fists he managed to keep from screaming, but it was a near thing. He took a deep breath and prepared to ask his wife just what the hell she thought she was doing, inviting his old mistresses to tea.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Weston.” A smiling blond woman bobbed a curtsy. Anne, that had to be Anne; no one else had that saucy tilt to her head. Noble’s mind started to go numb around the edges. Three mistresses? No, there was Madelyn; that made four. All together, here, in this room. How lovely. He peered suspiciously at a fifth occupant. No, it wasn’t Mariah; it was Gillian’s cousin. Which meant the other person, the sixth person, the person who was standing just behind his shoulder, no doubt chewing on that delectable little lip, was his wife.

  “Gillian?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, Noble?” She hurried around to his side. He was gratified to see he was right, she was chewing on her lip.

  “Would you care to tell me why you have seen fit to entertain four women of whom, by rights, you should not acknowledge the existence, let alone know well enough to have to tea?” Noble was quite proud of how level and calm his voice was. The voice that spoke out loud, that is. The voice in his head was shrieking like a banshee.

  Gillian thought about that for a moment. “Right now?”

  “If you please.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if we were to leave,” Charlotte said, making a quick dip toward the Black Earl and scurrying past him in a motion reminiscent of a startled crab. He looked, in her estimation, every bit as dangerous as his sobriquet, and she had no desire to be present to witness his reaction to Gillian’s explanation. If she had the chance to make one; Charlotte sent a fervent prayer heavenward that Gillian would survive the explanation, and bolted.

  “Perhaps we had better…” Madelyn rose and motioned to the other women. They all bobbed curtsies at the earl, who did not acknowledge them, his eyes at that moment being busy with the task of trying to bore holes into Gillian’s head.

  Gillian tried to avoid the Lord of Glares’ eye but knew her goose was plucked, stuffed, and cooked. She opened her mouth to make an excuse.

  “My lord?”

  It was Dickon.

  Noble snarled at him.

  Dickon’s eyes opened wide at the snarl. He picked at the trim on his jacket with bloodless fingers. “Eh…my lord, there is a matter that needs your attention belowstairs.”

  “What?” If Noble’s lips had snapped shut any faster, Gillian thought, he would have bit the word in two.

  Dickon looked as if he was going to be ill all over the carpet. “Mr. Crouch didn’t say, my lord. He just said to tell you there is something that needs your attention belowstairs.”

  “Go.”

  The word shot out of his mouth with the velocity of a bullet. Dickon didn’t hesitate. He went.

  Gillian gave up avoiding his eye and raised her chin. “Before you commence lecturing me, I would like the opportunity to say one thing in my defense.”

  Noble almost didn’t hear her, he was so busy trying to decide what to yell at her about first. “The choices are so tempting,” he said softly to himself. “They are laid out before me in a vast panoply of Bad Ideas. No, I take that back; Bad Ideas isn’t a good description of this particular venture. Taking hold of a wet, painted lantern was a Bad Idea. Bringing together four of my mistresses to discuss…my mind balks at the thought of exactly what you were discussing…bringing together my mistresses was not a Bad Idea. It was a Grievous Error of the highest degree.”

  Gillian licked her lips nervously.

  “Lord Weston? Lord Weston…uh…there’s an important note for you that’s just come.” It was Charles this time, a curiously pale and sweating Charles who repeatedly peered over his shoulder at something behind him. Gillian took a few steps to the side and looked beyond him.
She could see a number of the staff out in the hall, huddled in a large group, evidently discussing something.

  “Later.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Later, I said!”

  Charles almost stumbled over his feet, but he managed to make it out of the room without mishap. Gillian felt the odds were fairly good that she would not be so lucky.

  “Lecture, madam? You believe I am about to lecture you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Noble’s eyes narrowed as he watched her lick her lips again.

  “Oh, no you don’t, my good lady wife! You will cease distracting me in such a manner.”

  “Yer lordship? I hate to interrupt ye there when yer about to rip a strip off Lady Weston, but there’s a matter of a small fire in the library, and we thought ye might—”

  “You thought wrong, Crouch,” Noble said, his eyes never leaving Gillian’s face.

  “But yer books and such—” Crouch waved his hook about in an expressive manner. Gillian gave him a tremulous smile of gratitude. It was a sweet thought, really it was, but surely Crouch must know that nothing could save her now.

  “Let them burn. The whole bloody house can come down around our ears for all I care at this moment.”

  Crouch opened his mouth to say more but thought better of it. He closed the door softly behind him.

  Gillian repressed the urge to flinch at the look in her husband’s eyes and instead bit her lip nervously.

  “None of that delectable lip biting, either,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “It won’t work this time. I am beyond such temptations. You, madam, have finally gone too far.”

  Gillian threw back her shoulders and raised her chin again. She wouldn’t try to defend herself; she was, after all, technically in the wrong, despite the fact that she had done it to help him.

  Noble stared at her outthrust bosom, sending a wave of heat out from the deepest part of her. “You can bare those delicious strawberry-tipped breasts at me for all I care,” he said, trying to snap his fingers but failing miserably. Gillian’s color rose even more as his eyes wandered over her form as if he could see right through her gown. “It will have no effect on me whatsoever. I am impervious to your charms.”