Stephanie Laurens Rogues'' Reform Bundle

  Very likely, they would have gone.

  Just as he—

  Abruptly, Harry shook himself free of his thoughts. Drawing in a breath, he lifted his head—and found he was nearing the end of South Audley Street. Ahead, the leafy precincts of Green Park beckoned.

  Without allowing himself to consider, he strode on, then crossed Piccadilly to amble beneath the trees. There were few of the fashionable in sight—it was early yet and most would go to Hyde Park nearby. The gentle lawns about him played host to nursemaids and children, an odd couple or two strolling, like himself, aimlessly down the paths.

  He strolled slowly on, letting the peace sink into him, keeping his mind purposely blank.

  Until a cricket ball hit him on the side of the knee.

  Harry stifled a curse. He stooped and picked up the ball, then hefted it in one palm as he looked about for its owner.

  Or owners, as it happened to be.

  There were three of them, one slightly older but even he was barely seven. They sidled around a tree and approached with great caution.

  “I—I’m most fearfully sorry, sir,” the eldest piped up. “Did it hurt terribly?”

  Harry sternly quelled an impulse to laugh. “Horrendously,” he replied, lending the word maximum weight. All three faces fell. “But I dare say I’ll survive.” They recovered—and eyed him hopefully, large eyes fringed with long lashes, faces as innocent as the dawn.

  As his fingertips found the ball’s seam, Harry gave up the struggle and let his lips lift. He squatted, coming down to their height, and held out the ball, spinning it so that it whizzed like a top between his fingers.

  “Oh—I say!”

  “How d’you do that?”

  They gathered about him, polite reticence forgotten. Harry showed them the trick, a facility learned over the long summers of his childhood. They oohed and aahed and practised themselves, eagerly seeking advice.

  “James! Adam? Where on earth have you got to? Mark?”

  The three looked guiltily about.

  “We have to go,” the ringleader said. Then smiled—a smile only a young boy could master. “But thanks so much, sir.”

  Harry grinned. He stood and watched them hurry around the tree and over the lawns to where a rotund nurse waited impatiently.

  He was still grinning when Mrs Webb’s words floated through his head. “One just has to decide what one wants most of life.”

  What he most wanted—he hadn’t thought of it for years. He had once, more than ten years ago. He had been very sure, then, and had pursued his goal with what had been, at that time, his usual confident abandon. Only to find himself—and his dreams—betrayed.

  So he had put them away, locked them in the deepest recess of his mind, and never let them out again.

  Harry’s lips twisted cynically. He turned away and resumed his stroll.

  But he couldn’t turn his mind from its path.

  He knew very well what he most wanted of life—it was the same now as it had been then; despite the years, he hadn’t changed inside.

  Harry stopped and forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Behind him, he could hear the piping voices of his late companions as together with their nurse they quit the park. About him, youngsters cavorted and played under watchful eyes. Here and there, a gentleman strolled with his wife on his arm, their children ranging about them.

  Harry let out the breath trapped in his chest.

  Other lives were full—his remained empty.

  Perhaps, after all, it was time to re-examine the possibilities. Last time had been a disaster—but was he really such a coward he couldn’t face the pain again?

  HE ATTENDED THE THEATRE that night. For himself, he cared little for the dramatics enacted on the stage—and even less for the histrionics played out in the corridors, the little dramas of tonnish life. Unfortunately, the lovely Mrs Babbacombe had voiced her wish to experience Edmund Kean; Amberly had been only too happy to oblige.

  Concealed in the shadows by the wall of the pit, opposite the box Amberly had hired, Harry watched the little party settle into their seats. The bell had just rung; the whole theatre was abustle as society’s blessed took their seats in the tiers of boxes, the girls and ladies ogled by the bucks in the pit, while the less favoured looked on from the galleries above.

  Hugging the deep shadows cast by the boxes above him, Harry saw Amberly sit Lucinda with a flourish. She was dressed in blue as usual, tonight’s gown of a delicate lavender hue, the neckline picked out with silver thread. Her dark hair was dressed high over her pale face. Settling her skirts, she looked up at Amberly and smiled.

  Harry watched, a chill slowly seeping into his soul.

  Amberly laughed and spoke, bending closer so she did not have to strain to hear.

  Abruptly, Harry swung his gaze to the other members of the party. Satterly was chatting to Em, who had taken the seat beside Lucinda. Heather Babbacombe plumped down in the seat beyond Em; Harry spied Gerald standing behind her, his stance clearly proclaiming how he viewed his fair charge.

  Momentarily taken aback, Harry frowned. Gerald’s expression was easy for him to read, even at this distance. His brother looked far too intent. He was midway through making a mental note to have a quiet word in his baby brother’s ear, when he pulled himself up short. Heather Babbacombe might be young but she was, to his reading, an intensely carefree and honest young girl. Who was he to speak against her?

  His gaze drifted back to Lucinda. His lips twisted, more in self-mockery than in humour.

  Who was he to argue with love?

  What other reason could he give for being here—other than a deep need for reassurance? Even Dawlish had taken to eyeing him with something perilously close to pity. When he had, somewhat irritably, demanded, “What the devil’s the matter?” his dour henchman had rubbed his chin, then opined, “It’s just that you don’t exactly seem to be enjoying yourself—if you know what I mean.”

  He had glared and stalked into the library—but he knew very well what Dawlish had meant. The last week had been sheer hell. He had thought that cutting Lucinda Babbacombe out of his life, given she had only just entered it, would be easy enough. He was, after all, a past master at leaving women behind him; avoiding relationships was part of a rake’s stock-in-trade.

  But putting the lovely Mrs Babbacombe out of his thoughts had proved impossible.

  Which left him with only one alternative.

  As Mrs Webb had so succinctly put it—what he wanted most.

  But did she still want him?

  Harry watched as Amberly rattled on, gesticulating elegantly. He was a wit of sorts, and a polished raconteur. The possibility that Lucinda, having rejected his proposal, might have set him aside in her heart, decided he was not worth the trouble and turned instead to someone else for comfort, was not a particularly reassuring thought.

  Even less reassuring was the realisation that, if she had, he would get no second chance—had no right to demand another, nor to interfere with his friend’s pursuit.

  A vice closed around Harry’s chest. Amberly gesticulated again and Em laughed. Lucinda looked up at him, a smile on her lips. Harry squinted, desperate to see the expression in her eyes.

  But she was too far away; when she turned back to the front of the box, her lids veiled her eyes.

  The fanfare sounded, erupting from the musician’s pit before the stage. It was greeted with noisy catcalls from the pit and polite applause from the boxes. The house lamps were doused as the stage lamps flared. The performers in the farce made their entrance; all eyes were riveted on the stage.

  All except Lucinda’s.

  Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Harry saw she was looking down, not at the stage, apparently staring at her hands, possibly playing with her fan. She kept her head up, so no one in the box behind her would suspect her attention was not focused on the play, as was theirs. The flickering light played over her features, calm but hauntingly sad, reserved but eloquently expressive.


  Harry drew in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall. Some of the tightness in his chest melted away.

  Abruptly, Lucinda lifted her head and looked around—not at the stage but at the audience, uncaring of who might notice her distraction. Harry froze as her gaze scanned the boxes above him, then shifted further along.

  Even in the poor light, he could see the hope that lit her face, that invested her whole body with sudden animation.

  He watched it slowly fade.

  She blinked, then slowly settled back in her chair, her face composed yet inexpressibly sadder than before.

  Harry’s heart twisted painfully. This time, he didn’t try to shut it away, to blot out the emotion. But as he turned and moved silently to the door along the wall, he acknowledged the joy that came in its wake.

  He hadn’t been wrong about Lucinda Babbacombe. The damned woman was so ridiculously sure of herself she hadn’t even considered the danger in loving him.

  Stepping out of the darkness of the pit, he smiled.

  Two floors above, in the crowded gallery, Earle Joliffe was very far from smiling. In fact, he was scowling—at Lucinda, and the party in Amberly’s box.

  “Deuce take it! What the devil’s going on?” he hissed.

  Beside him, Mortimer Babbacombe returned an uncomprehending look.

  Disgusted, Joliffe gestured at the box opposite. “What’s she doing to them? She’s turned a whole gaggle of the worst wolves in London into pussycats!”

  Mortimer blinked. “Pussycats?”

  Joliffe all but snarled. “Lap-dogs, then! She is a damned witch—just like Scrugthorpe said.”

  “Quiet there!”

  “Ssh!” came from all around them.

  For a moment, Joliffe contemplated a mill with positive glee. Then sanity intruded; he forced himself to stay in his seat. But his eyes remained fixed on his sacrificial lamb—who had transmogrified into a wolf-tamer.

  After a moment, Mortimer leaned closer. “Perhaps they’re softening her up—pulling the wool over her eyes. We can afford to give them a little time—it’s not as if we’re that desperate for the money.”

  Joliffe stared at him—then sank his chin in his hands. “Rakes don’t behave as they are to your aunt-by-marriage when they’re hot on a woman’s trail,” he explained through clenched teeth. His jaundiced gaze rested on Amberly and Satterly. “They’re being nice, for heaven’s sake! Can’t you see it?”

  Frowning, Mortimer looked across the theatre, studying the silent tableau.

  Joliffe swallowed a curse. As for not being desperate—they were—very desperate. An unexpected meeting with his creditor last night had demonstrated to him just how desperate they truly were. Joliffe quelled a shiver at the memory of the odd, disembodied voice that had floated out of the carriage, stopping him in his tracks on the mist-shrouded pavement.

  “Soon, Joliffe. Very soon.” A pause had ensued. Then, “I’m not a patient man.”

  Joliffe had heard tales enough of the man’s lack of patience—and what usually transpired because of it.

  He was desperate all right. But Mortimer had too weak a head to be entrusted with the news.

  Joliffe concentrated on the woman seated across the darkened pit. “We’ll have to do something—take an active hand.” He spoke more for himself than Mortimer.

  But Mortimer heard. “What?” He turned to Joliffe, a shocked, somewhat stupid expression on his face. “But…I thought we’d agreed there was no need to be openly involved—to actually do anything ourselves!”

  His voice had risen.

  “Shh!” came from all sides.

  Exasperated, Joliffe grabbed Mortimer’s coat and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.” He sent a venomous glance across the theatre. “I’ve seen enough.”

  He pushed Mortimer ahead of him to the exit.

  Immediately they gained the corridor, Mortimer turned on him, clutching his coat. “But you said we wouldn’t need to kidnap her.”

  Jollife eyed him in disgust. “I’m not talking about kidnapping,” he snapped, wrenching his coat free. He looked ahead, his features hardening. “For our purposes, there’s a better way.”

  He glanced at Mortimer, contempt in his eyes.

  “Come on—there’s a certain party we need to see.”

  Chapter Ten

  BY THE TIME Em took her seat at the breakfast table on Friday morning, she was considering visiting Harry herself. Not that it would do any good—but she felt so helpless every time she looked at Lucinda’s face. Calm and pale, her guest sat toying with a piece of cold toast, her expression distant.

  Em swallowed her snort. Feeling dejected herself, she poured a cup of tea.

  “Are we going anywhere today?” Heather, seated further down the table, fixed big hazel eyes almost pleadingly on Em.

  Em slanted a glance at Lucinda. “Perhaps we’ll just have a quiet day today. A drive in the Park in the afternoon. We’ve Lady Halifax’s ball tonight.”

  Lucinda’s smile was perfunctory.

  “Greenwich was such fun.” Heather struggled to invest her words with conviction. Lord Ruthven had arranged an outing yesterday to the Observatory, hoping to lift Lucinda’s spirits. He and Mr Satterly, who had made one of the party, had battled valiantly but to no avail.

  Lucinda shifted in her chair. “It was very kind of Lord Ruthven to arrange it. I must send a note around to thank him.”

  Em doubted Ruthven would appreciate it. The poor man had pulled out all stops but it was clear Lucinda barely saw him. Not that she made reference to what was occupying her mind. Her composure was faultless; those who did not know her would detect nothing amiss. Those who did saw the superficiality of her smiles, which no longer reached her eyes, mistier than ever and distressingly remote. She was naturally reserved; now, despite going amongst them, she seemed to have withdrawn from real contact.

  “Perhaps,” Heather ventured, “we could go to the museum? We haven’t seen Lord Elgin’s marbles yet. You said you’d like to.”

  Lucinda tilted her head. “Perhaps.”

  Helpless, Heather glanced at Em.

  Em shook her head. She had originally thought Heather too young, too immature, to sense Lucinda’s silent woe. Over the last few days, she had realised that Heather both saw and understood, but with the confidence of youth had imagined matters would work themselves out somehow. Now, even Heather’s confidence was flagging. She was as concerned as Em, which worried Em all the more.

  The door opened; Fergus appeared at Em’s side and presented a silver salver.

  “The mail, ma’am. And there’s a letter just hand-delivered for Mrs Babbacombe. The boy didn’t wait for a reply.”

  Em picked up the white, sealed packet, painfully aware of the sudden tension that had gripped Lucinda. One glance at the scrawled direction was enough to tell her it wasn’t from Harry. Helpless to do otherwise, she handed it over without comment, trying not to watch as, the seal broken, the expectation that had momentarily lit Lucinda’s face died.

  Lucinda frowned as she read the short missive, then, grimacing, laid it aside. She looked down at her toast, now stone-cold. With a tiny sigh, she reached for the teapot.

  Em was beyond social niceties. “Well?”

  Lucinda glanced at her, then shrugged. “It’s an invitation to some houseparty in the country.”

  “Whose?”

  Lucinda frowned. “I can’t immediately recall the lady.” She sipped her tea, glancing down at the note. “Lady Martindale of Asterley Place.”

  “Martindale?” Em started to frown, then her face cleared.

  “Oh—that’ll be Marguerite. She’s Elmira, Lady Asterley’s daughter. She must be helping out. But that’s wonderful!” Em turned to Lucinda. “Just the thing! Some fresh air and genteel fun is precisely what you need. Elmira is one of my oldest friends although we haven’t met in ages. She’ll be getting on, now. When’s this party to be?”

  Lucinda hesitated, then gr
imaced. “It starts later today—but the invitation’s just for me.”

  Em blinked. “Just for…?” Then she blinked again, her face clearing. “Ah—I see!”

  Lucinda looked up. “What is it?”

  Em straightened. “Just remembered. Harry’s a close friend of Elmira’s son—Alfred, Lord Asterley. Been thick as thieves since they were at Eton together.”

  She watched as Lucinda reached again for the note.

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed.” Em’s eyes glazed as she considered the possibilities. “Always hand-in-glove in mischief. Got sent down together any number of times.” For a moment, she remained sunk in thought, then flicked a glance at Lucinda, busy scrutinising the invitation. “You know,” Em said, sitting back in her chair, “it’s probably not surprising that the invitation’s just for you. I can see how it would have been—Elmira had a last-minute cancellation and asked Alfred if he could suggest someone suitable to fill the gap.” Em hesitated, then added, “And Alfred and Harry are very close.”

  The more Em thought of it, the more convinced she was that Harry was behind the unexpected invitation. It would be just like him to manoeuvre to get Lucinda into the country, free of mentors, admirers and step-daughters, so he could make amends for his behaviour away from all interested eyes. Very Harry indeed.

  Em snorted.

  The atmosphere around the breakfast table had altered dramatically. Instead of resignation bordering on the morose, speculation now tinged the air. Varying degrees of calculation and decision were reflected in the ladies’ expressions.

  Pushing her plate aside, Heather put their thoughts into words. “You have to go.”

  “Absolutely,” Em agreed. “Heather and I are more than capable of entertaining each other for a few days.”

  Lucinda, reanimated but still frowning, looked up from the invitation. “You’re sure it’s acceptable for me to go alone?”

  “To Asterley Place? Of course!” Em dismissed the point with a wave. “It’s not as if you were a young girl making her come-out. And you’ll find plenty there you’ve already met, I don’t doubt. Very fashionable, Elmira’s parties.”