Compromised Miss

His brows settled into a solid bar. It shouldn’t be too difficult to smooth over the immediate problems. But as for Monsieur Noir…It was a damnable situation! Lucius bared his teeth in what was not a smile and fell to contemplating the array of cobwebs that festooned the curtains and the scurrying antics of a spider, trying not to allow the disdain he had read in the eyes of Captain Harry Lydyard to disturb him.

But it did. The young man’s stare had been contemptuous, scornful of his obvious sliding round the truth. By what right did a common smuggler pass judgement on him, Lucius Hallaston?

By the same right you pass judgement on yourself. You deserve it for allowing yourself to get into this mess! his conscience sneered in his ear.

He must have dozed. When the door to his bedchamber opened again later in the morning, disturbing a quantity of dust, a sturdy individual, more appropriately clad for a day’s work in a fishing smack than a period of duty as a gentleman’s valet, entered. A bundle of clothes in his arms, he was followed by an equally robust woman with a determined air and lines of profound censure on her broad features. She carried a tray with a bowl, a ewer of hot water and a dish of something steaming that smelled—well, good.

‘Morning, y’r honour.’ The fisherman lost no time, depositing the bundle on the bed. ‘I’ve been sent by Cap’n Harry to take care o’ you.’

‘My thanks.’ Lucius pushed himself up on the pillows.

‘Some rare bruises, I’d imagine.’ Without hesitation, the fisherman thrust an arm around Lucius’s shoulders and heaved. ‘You’ve a tighter hold on life this morning, y’r honour, I’ll say that. Thought you was a gonner—all the blood an’ all. George Gadie, y’r honour. Fisherman.’

‘And smuggler?’ Lucius’s memory was vague at best, but some aspects of his rescue were clear enough.

‘Aye, sir…’ Wariness flitted across the man’s face but there was a glint in his eye. ‘And you, y’r honour?’

‘Lucius Hallaston.’

‘Well, Mr Hallaston, the Cap’n says you’re to drink this.’ A mug of ale changed hands.

The woman who had been bustling round the room nudged George aside with bowl, spoon and napkin. ‘I’ll say one thing, though some would say it’s none of my business. The sooner you leave here, the better for all our sakes, sir. Especially for—’

‘Take yourself off, Meggie,’ George broke in. ‘Let the man drink and get his breath.’

‘All I was saying was…’

‘Least said, soonest mended,’ George growled.

With a smile of thanks to Meggie that was ignored as she stomped to the door, Lucius gripped the bowl as best he could with his injured left arm, dipped the spoon and drank. It was good, deliciously aromatic to enhance the flavour of chicken. He realised how long it was since he had had anything to eat.

Meanwhile George sat down beside the bed, leaning forwards with arms on stalwart thighs as if anticipating a conversation. Much as Harry Lydyard had done. Lucius cocked his head, continued to spoon up the broth and waited.

‘Are you a spy, then, y’r honour?’

Lucius abandoned the spoon and wiped his mouth with the napkin as he struggled against impatience. ‘Why does everyone presume that I am? No, I am not a spy.’ He read the patent disbelief in the smuggler’s seamed face, but said no more. What proof had he but mere denial—but no point in dwelling on what could not be changed. ‘Can I get to Brighton?’ he asked, the uppermost thought in his mind.

‘Expect so. When you can get to your feet.’

‘I can do that. I don’t want to impose on you more than I have already. The maid—Jenny, was it?—I must thank her. I think she sat with me during the night, when I was restless.’

‘No. Not Jenny. It would be the Cap’n.’

Was there the slightest hesitation. Did he detect some disfavour in the gruff announcement? Impossible to tell. And why would the fisherman have any opinion on it? The beat of pain in his head made it not worth considering. ‘Then I must thank the Captain. Lydyard, I think he said. A local family?’

‘Aye, sir. The Capn’s brother—he’s the local landowner. Sir Wallace.’

‘Then I must thank Captain Harry for his hospitality before I go.’ Lucius carefully placed the bowl on the nightstand.

‘Don’t think he’s around.’ There was that scowl again, the brusque reply. ‘Shall I shave you, y’r honour?’

‘No need. You hold the bowl and towel, but hand me the razor. I can use my right arm well enough, although the left’s pretty useless. Have you a mirror?’

‘Aye, sir.’ George wiped the square on his thigh and held the smeared glass. He chuckled. ‘You mightn’t like what you see, though.’

It was a shock.

‘By God! That’s a mess.’ Lucius looked at the reflection in the mirror. Ran his fingers over the growth of beard and then, gently, down the livid scar on his cheek, flinching at the soreness. If vanity was an issue, if his looks mattered as much to him as it did to his younger brother who was in the throes of incipient dandyism, he would be cast into despair. Together with the purple bruising on his temple and jaw, and the matted hair stuck to his head with God knew what, he looked a criminal fit for Newgate. ‘It’ll heal, I expect.’ He winced as he once again pressed his fingers against the knife wound.

‘So Capn Harry said. He cleaned it up as well as he could.’

‘Hmm. Then let’s see if we can put the rest to rights.’

Within the next half-hour Lucius had to admit to looking relatively more respectable. Shaving complete, he struggled into boots and breeches—fortunately his own, if hopelessly stained—and a linen shirt that was not his, but of good quality.

‘Best we could do.’ George gave him a helping hand to pull on the boots. ‘Meggie’s trying to find you a coat. Yours isn’t in a fit state. Until we do—what do you think of this, y’r honour?’ He held up the dressing gown with a rough flourish, unable to repress a guffaw.

‘Hell and the Devil! Now that’s an eyeful.’ Lucius grinned as he shrugged his right arm carefully into the vibrant glory of rampant dragons. The other he couldn’t manage so allowed the magnificent beasts on the left to simply hang.

‘Sir Wallace’s.’ George smirked. ‘We borrowed it. Like the shirt. He’s an eye to fashion.’

‘Has he now?’ Looping the belt, Lucius was willing to tolerate it for the sake of respectability. ‘My thanks. Now, if you can find me a coat and a horse, I’ll be out of your hair. If I can get to Brighton…’

George shook his head. ‘Don’t think you should ride, y’r honour. Not with the blood you lost. I can arrange a pony and trap easy enough from the Silver Boat to get you to Brighton. If you had money,’ he added slyly.

‘And there’s the rub. But we’ll work something out.’ Lucius rubbed his hand over his newly shaven cheek. ‘I had a gold hunter with me when I went to France.’

‘Not any longer, sir. Gone the way o’ the rest o’ y’r possessions.’

A peremptory knock on the door.

It heralded the entrance of a man driven by righteous anger and blunt discourtesy. His accusation followed without introduction.

‘So the tales in the village were right enough.’ The visitor slammed the door behind him, eyes narrowed into a glare. ‘What’s this? A nameless ruffian dragged from the high seas, and wearing my dressing gown?’

Lucius resisted the inclination to raise his brows at the intrusion, struggling to keep a civil tongue in his head. Nothing to be gained by taking the offensive. The man—a gentleman despite his lack of good manners—was perhaps thirty-four or -five, around Lucius’s age, clad in a fashionable greatcoat of indeterminate drabness reaching to his ankles, with innumerable shoulder capes, the whole magnifying his rotund appearance and short stature. His face was broad, his complexion florid, telling of a close association with Free Trade liquor. Lucius heard George clear his throat uncomfortably. So this was Sir Wallace Lydyard, owner of the dubious taste in garments. But Lucius did not appreciate the overt hostility, the sheer lack of good manners or breeding.

‘My apologies, sir,’ Lucius replied as he rose slowly to his feet. A cool chill, the curtest inclination of the head, a deliberate lack of recognition. He would not be reduced to such discourtesy but, by God, he would not ignore such rank ill manners. ‘The rumours you were so quick to take at face value are incorrect. I was an innocent traveller in France, injured and robbed through no fault of my own. Fortunately I was rescued by some gentlemen of the Free Trade.’ Now, deliberately, he allowed his brows to lift infinitesimally. ‘I was not aware that that entitled me to be painted as a ruffian of the high seas.’

‘No?’ Sir Wallace was not to be discouraged. ‘What is any law-abiding Englishman doing in a French port if not to England’s danger, when the French are our sworn enemies, even at this moment engaged in battle with our brave forces in the Peninsula?’

‘Urgent business of a family nature that can be of no possible interest to you, sir.’ The raised brows were superb in their arrogance. Lucius had had enough of slurs on his character. ‘If I am making use of your splendid garment, then I must offer you my thanks. My own coat is ruined or I should not have taken such a liberty. Perhaps you would be so good as to advise me of your name, sir?’

‘Lydyard. Sir Wallace Lydyard.’

Again Lucius managed the slightest inclination of his head, icily polite, a barbed and poisonous weapon to depress pretension and boorishness. ‘Lydyard. Let me make myself known, to clear any misunderstanding between us. I am Lucius Hallaston. Earl of Venmore.’

‘Venmore!’