Glory And The Rake

‘I assume that’s why you’re robbing me.’

Glory blinked in surprise. ‘I’m not robbing you,’ she protested. But in that unguarded instant he made his move, knocking the pistol aside and pulling her to him.

The weapon fell to the ground and Glory found her back up against the man’s body, while his arm closed tight across her chest, holding her fast. Gasping at the startling intimacy, Glory felt her wits desert her. Although rarely at a loss, she was bombarded by unfamiliar sensations: the man’s obvious strength, the hard form pressed to hers and the heat that enveloped her.

Even as she drew in a sharp breath, Glory was assailed anew by the scent of warm male tinged with a subtle cologne. Her heart thundered, her pulse pounded and then there was a brush of warm breath on her hair as though of a whisper …

‘What the devil?’ Thad’s shout rang out, cutting off whatever words Glory imagined she might hear. And she blinked as her brother appeared on the path, silhouetted against the setting sun. ‘Unhand my sister!’

‘Work in tandem, do you?’ The deep drawl close to her ear sent shivers up Glory’s spine. She told herself it was because the villain didn’t seem the least bit wary of Thad charging to her rescue. The voice itself, rife with confidence, had nothing to do with the peculiar quickening of her body, a loss of control that alarmed her more than anything else.

But perhaps that’s what fear did to a person, Glory thought, although the man had not hurt her, simply disarmed her. In fact, she appeared to be in more jeopardy from Thad, who suddenly launched himself towards the stranger, despite the fact that Glory was standing in front of the man, unable to move. Her assailant, a bit more aware, quickly set her behind him.

‘Don’t make me regret this,’ he said, as he released her, and Glory wondered at the kind of thug who would set her free. Perhaps one who thought far too highly of himself, she mused as he faced Thad.

But the man’s confidence was not misplaced. Even in the dim light, Glory could see that Thad’s efforts were clumsy and erratic, while his opponent’s were perfectly controlled, as practised as a boxer’s. Although that was not unusual, for even Thad wanted to take up the gentleman’s sport, this fellow had the skills of a professional. He could easily have been one of the bruisers who were paid to bloody each other in a milling-match, and Glory feared for her brother’s life.

Indeed, Thad was soon knocked to the ground, and Glory cried out in protest. Automatically stepping towards him, she nearly tripped on the forgotten pistol. Relief swamped her as she leaned down to retrieve it.

‘Stop right there!’ Glory shouted, and this time her hand was steadier as she pointed the weapon at Thad’s assailant.

But neither male paid any attention to her threat. Thad sat up, rubbed his jaw and eyed his silent foe with what might have been admiration. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

‘Gentleman Jackson’s.’

‘No! Really?’ Thad said, his voice rising with excitement. ‘I’d love to learn from the master, but my sister doesn’t approve. Instead, she dragged me here to the ends of the earth, where there’s nothing for a game fellow to do.’

As Glory watched dumbfounded, Thad’s opponent stretched out a hand to help him to his feet. ‘So you’ve taken up thievery?’

‘What? No! I’m no thief, but what … what are you?’ Thad asked, apparently coming to his senses. His tone changed to a challenge as he straightened. ‘What were you doing with my sister?’

‘I was wondering why the door to the supposedly closed Pump Room was standing open when your sister threatened to put a bullet in me,’ the man said.

They both turned towards Glory, who got her first good look at her assailant as the setting sun struck him. Tall, dark and good looking, he was dressed immaculately and reeked of power, wealth and arrogance. Or was it simply confidence? Shaken, Glory drew in a sharp breath.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Since circumstances have conspired against a formal introduction, you may call me Westfield,’ he said, with a slight nod.

‘You’re the Duke of Westfield?’ Thad’s voice held both awe and horror, and Glory might have swayed upon her feet, had not the nobleman reached out a steadying hand—to turn away the pistol she was pointing at him.

Oberon Makepeace, fourth Duke of Westfield, shot his cuffs, straightened his neckcloth and headed up the slope to Sutton House, none the worse for the attempted assault. He tucked the small pistol he had collected into the pocket of his coat, the better to avoid any further unpleasantness. Neither the young man nor woman had put up much argument at that point, and Oberon had made good his escape without the fear of a bullet in his back.

He had not been expecting such an encounter, here on the outskirts of nowhere, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Although the effort had been clumsy and easily foiled, Oberon could not discount the possibility that there was more to what had transpired than met the eye. And it was that prospect, among other reasons, that kept him from tossing his young perpetrators in gaol.

Oberon had learned long ago that people were not always what they seemed, and while the young woman looked like any other empty-headed daughter of the local gentry, genteel ladies did not point pistols at strangers. She might be passing as one of her betters, so that she and her so-called brother could run some kind of swindle, and, if so, they might have stumbled upon Oberon by chance. After all, he had arrived only an hour ago.

However, chance was something Oberon viewed with scepticism, and he tried to remember who knew he was travelling to the village of Philtwell. He hadn’t told many of his plans, just put it about that he had a family engagement. But his mother might have spread the word. She was responsible for the outing, having insisted that he accompany her to visit an ailing relation. Although Oberon had suggested others in his stead, including the family physician, the dowager was adamant. Nor had she accepted what she termed his ‘social commitments’ as a viable excuse.

Acceding to her wishes, Oberon had endured a lengthy journey on barely passable roads to reach Philtwell, a rustic backwater far from civilisation.

The village boasted little more than a rutted main street lined with dilapidated buildings, including the remnants of Queen’s Well, a spa once favoured by Queen Elizabeth. Never a particularly fashionable watering hole, it had not enjoyed the success of Bath or Tunbridge Wells, and its heyday had long passed, its waters closed.

And yet, someone had been skulking about the Pump Room, and not just anyone … At his first glimpse of the shadowy form, Oberon had reacted more strongly than was his wont. Perhaps it was the threat she had presented, but the ennui he had felt since leaving London disappeared, replaced by a surge of excitement, sharp and unfamiliar. He told himself it was only the sudden appearance of a new challenge, a puzzle, here, of all places.

And if the enigma came in a slender body that fit perfectly against his? Oberon frowned. Obviously, it had been too long since he parted with his last mistress or he would never have been so affected by a slip of a female. Far more important than her appeal was the fact that she carried a pistol and had threatened him with it. That made her both foolhardy and dangerous—and worth further inspection, along with the village itself.

Philtwell’s remoteness would be an advantage to those who would meet away from prying eyes, and in the past, many had gathered at spas to hatch their plots. But today? Oberon shook his head dubiously. He was probably clutching at straws in order to occupy himself. Yet, as he left the outskirts of Philtwell to turn into drive of Sutton House, he watched the shadows for any signs of movement.

Nothing loomed ahead except Randolph Pettit’s residence, a sturdy brick building that was small by ducal standards, but would serve well enough for a short stay. Although a couple of centuries old, it had a clean look, thanks to some additions and improvements over the years. More were needed, especially inside, and Oberon wondered just how well his mother’s cousin was situated.

He slipped in a side entrance to avoid any scrutiny and to determine whether he showed any signs of his recent adventure. A quick assessment in his bedroom revealed nothing except a dusty coat, which could be easily remedied by his valet. Reaching into his pocket, Oberon removed the small pistol and deposited it in a bureau drawer.

Looking down at the weapon for a long moment, Oberon wondered whether he should have questioned the young woman more closely. But too much interest on his part would be remarked, and he could not afford to show his hand even in such a distant locale as Philtwell. However, he had no intention of dismissing the incident, and he was already thinking ahead as he called for his valet.

Country hours were kept at Sutton House, which meant an early supper and a long evening of boredom to follow. But now Oberon’s senses were alert, and the upcoming meal became like so many others, an opportunity to listen and learn and ferret out the information he sought.

However, when he made his way to the dining hall, Oberon found it deserted. Obviously a part of the original structure, the room remained much as it must have looked when built. Although most of the house had been refurbished, here the dim lighting cast only a faint glow that did not reach the corners. The furniture, too, was heavy and dark, Oberon noted, as he walked slowly around the perimeter. He was approaching one wall where the paint appeared to be mottled with age when he heard footsteps.

Turning, he saw only his mother on the threshold. ‘Your cousin is unable to join us?’ he asked, masking his disappointment. It appeared he would learn little about the locals tonight.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But he does seem to be improving.’

Oberon wouldn’t know, having been shooed away from the sickroom of a man he could not recall. And he wondered, again, why his mother insisted that he accompany her when she would have been better served by a physician, companion or man of business who could put her cousin’s affairs in order, if necessary.

But he was here, whether he liked it or not, and he took a seat across from his mother, hoping that the food would be palatable.

‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

Accustomed to hiding his reactions, Oberon gave only a non-committal nod in answer, for he was not prepared to share the details of his unexpected outing with his mother, at least not now. Perhaps not ever.

‘Did you see the Pump Room?’ she asked. ‘That’s where your father and I met, you know.’

Oberon nodded. Despite her sharp wit, his mother seemed to have succumbed to nostalgia. Since receiving her cousin’s summons, her usual pragmatic comments had been replaced by such reminiscences, and Oberon was not quite sure what to make of them.

‘I understood that it is no longer in use,’ he said.

‘Yes, not long after your father and I were here, the spa was struck by a fire that consumed some of the buildings and resulted in its closure. That’s when the owners sold Sutton House, but it seems they held on to other properties.’

‘And yet I thought I saw some activity there,’ Oberon said, carefully.

‘Perhaps it was the Suttons. Randolph says they have returned to rebuild and re-open Queen’s Well.’ She seemed absurdly pleased by the prospect, while Oberon wondered what kind of fool would attempt such a venture.

Although watering holes like Bath still had their adherents among the elderly and barely genteel, the Prince Regent had made the seaside, most notably Brighton, the fashionable destination. And from what little he had seen, a lot of money would be required to make Queen’s Well presentable, with little prospect of return.

‘And did you meet anyone when you were out?’ Something about his mother’s innocent tone made Oberon suspicious.

‘I hardly think I would be approached without an introduction, even in such a place as Philtwell,’ he said.