The Disgraceful Lord Gray Page 8

  ‘I most certainly am neither unnerved nor frightened nor attracted! I couldn’t give two figs whether I see the fellow or not.’ And like a sap, she was already striding purposefully towards the dratted trees to prove it, despite that being the exact opposite thing to the one she wanted to do. ‘I’m simply fed up trailing after you in the heat.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Thea, darling. I’d hate to think my choice of spot was the cause of any distress... Although I am intrigued to meet his cousin properly. All I managed was a brief how do you do.’

  ‘Are you talking about Lord Fennimore?’

  ‘Indeed I am. I thought he was very distinguished, with an attractive, confident manner about him. I like a confident man. And he’s apparently a bachelor to boot. He definitely requires further scrutiny.’ She gazed wistfully towards Kirton House, then shrugged at Thea’s bemused expression. ‘Don’t look so surprised. If you think decent gentlemen the right side of forty are thin on the ground here in Suffolk, you should try being my age. They are either married or so dreadful nobody can bear their company. Like Colonel Purbeck, who completely dominated Lord Fennimore at the tea and I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to suffer his droning company—even for a handsome stranger. Not when it is inevitable I will collide with him naturally in the grounds one day. Not today, of course, seeing as we are avoiding his gorgeous younger relative at all costs.’

  Because Harriet was speaking loudly, Thea slowed her pace. ‘Keep your voice down or he’ll hear us and then my day will be well and truly spoiled!’ The last thing she wanted was that shameless flirt coming to his door to investigate. Not when she now knew she should have trusted those alarm bells and not been goaded by Harriet into getting to know him better—then outrageously goaded by him into flirting.

  Although the flirting on the terrace had been fun at the time despite the fact her subsequent reaction to it was unnerving. His boldness and confidence had tempted her to be bolder herself and for once she forgot to be polite and instead, for a short while, had been her true self in front of him. The old, unburdened Thea who always did as she pleased and acted before thinking. The one who had exceedingly poor taste in men.

  Yet she had still found herself looking forward to his potential visit the following day, despite there being no firm plans, and had spent far too long at her toilette in preparation, wondering if she should allow a little bit of Impetuous Thea out of her box again just for the thrill of it. Until she realised that was exactly the problem. Like the seductive soldier who had been the last man to thoroughly lead her astray with no thought to the consequences, Lord Gray was too tempting.

  Yesterday she had initially kept her guard up each time he tried to flirt because there were witnesses—that had been hard because the parrying, teasing comments had been on the tip of her tongue the entire time, but she had promised herself she would resist. A resolve which had hardened to granite once she had found out about his dreadful past. Her impeccable instincts had been correct all along and she should have heeded their warning rather than listen to her flighty inner self. He was as bad as Mr Hargreaves—if not worse.

  However, despite his blatant unsuitability and her obvious lack of interest during tea, Uncle Edward had continued to make unsubtle hints that Lord Gray should court her right up until the second he had left. Because he was a thoroughly disgraceful scoundrel all the way through to his perfectly proportioned bones, Lord Gray had intimated that he fully intended to do so. A prospect as disagreeable as it was appealing—and that simply wouldn’t do. Henceforth, he and his dangerously silver tongue would be avoided unless it was under the strict confines of a proper social occasion filled with a room full of people to act as chaperons. Aside from the fact she didn’t trust him, Thea also did not trust the buried part of her which his face, body and mischievous, bold manner inappropriately responded to.

  The part that kept whispering that she and Lord Gray were well matched.

  Harriet paused, shielded her eyes from the sun and rather unsubtly stared at Kirton House. ‘I don’t think anyone is home. Look—the windows are all shut. Nobody shuts their windows here unless they are out. We should be perfectly safe walking past—not that I see what the problem is. I found Lord Gray positively charming and am quite happy to further the acquaintance with him, too.’

  ‘It’s far too hot to socialise. This afternoon all I want to do is read.’ She waved her book for emphasis. ‘Something I have been denied this last hour because of your dithering.’ Thea ploughed on, somewhat relieved that Kirton House did indeed look deserted. The dust needed to settle, more internal locks and safeguards needed to be applied, before she was brave enough to weather another minute with him.

  I’m an irritatingly persistent fellow.

  Indeed he was—irritating in the extreme and so confident and cocky. His outrageous flirting on the terrace and her peculiar reaction to it were still too fresh in her mind. What sort of man mentioned kissing within a scant few hours of meeting a lady? Now she couldn’t think about him without thinking about kissing him, which played havoc with her pulse. Clearly her body was as outraged as her sensibilities were. His utter cheek and overall lack of propriety were astounding, as was the way everyone dear to her seemed intent on matchmaking.

  Matchmaking! With a man who had been so wicked he’d had to leave England in disgrace! They could matchmake all they wanted; nothing would convince her to be tempted by that smooth-talking scoundrel ever again.

  I shall do my best to mine through to that soft kernel.

  Where he would find she didn’t have the feeble shell of the common or garden nut at all, but the tough, granite exterior of a castle. A castle whose battlements were protected by a hundred archers and fearsome-looking knights with vats of boiling oil which they would enjoy pouring on his annoying dark head the moment he had the audacity to attempt to breach the defences and find the real Thea locked in the dungeon beneath...

  Dungeon? Since when had she thought about her life as a prison? Now there was an unsettling thought to add to the new and unnerving list of them.

  ‘You’re doing it again, you know. Talking to yourself.’

  ‘I never said a word.’

  ‘Maybe not out loud, but by the scrunched-up sourpuss expression and your nodding and shaking head, you were ranting inwardly to yourself. You really need to stop doing that, you know. It’s very odd. If I stumbled across you and didn’t know you to be a perfectly sane person by and large, I’d think you were a recently escaped inmate from Bedlam.’

  Thea did not dignify the accusation with a response, lest it condemn her further, and instead plunged into the trees, ruminating on the idea that she felt trapped by the life she had created for herself. Dismissing it from her mind as humbug brought about by her own foolish lack of propriety with him on the terrace, she found the ideal spot—a small clearing around an enormous, ancient fallen trunk that was completely bathed in sunshine one end and sheltered by an umbrella of filigree leaves the other. It was also reassuringly surrounded by so many trees, nobody would see them if they happened to be striding arrogantly by. Not feeling particularly generous after being virtually forced into compliance, she left Harriet to wrestle with the easel and took herself to a patch of soft grass in the shade and dropped her bottom down. Resting her back against the gnarly old trunk, she opened her book decisively and decided to revel in one of life’s simple and uncomplicated pleasures—a good, reassuring book.

  It had taken months to track down a copy of Pride and Prejudice by the unnamed author of Sense and Sensibility. Having found none existed in Suffolk, she’d had to send to London for a copy. Already, just a few chapters in, she was backing the dashing Mr Wickham and saw a lot of herself in the feisty heroine Lizzie. A sensible young woman who didn’t suffer fools or idle flattery gladly. Like Lizzie with the arrogant Mr Darcy, Thea would not waste another second thinking about him.

  After five minutes of silence where s
he tried and failed to focus on the words, she sensed her friend watching her. She looked up to find Harriet holding up her paintbrush like a proper artist and measuring her. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Thea dear, but I’m going to paint you. The muse has struck and I simply must listen.’

  ‘The muse?’ Her eccentric companion always thoroughly embraced each new hobby with over-the-top enthusiasm before discarding it like an old newspaper. ‘You have a muse now?’

  ‘A most insistent one.’ Harriet waved her arms about her expansively, undeterred by Thea’s dubious expression. ‘This charming little clearing, the aged wood, the emerald grass...the butterflies dancing on the hazy pollen-filled air combined with your vivid, Celtic hair... Don’t you see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The charming whimsy, of course! Why, it is reminiscent of the mythical Scottish faerie stories I adored as a child. The tableau is perfect...simply divine... Take your shoes off, darling. Faeries don’t wear shoes.’

  ‘Will it give me some peace if I do?’

  ‘Most assuredly. I’m itching to get started. The light is magnificent.’

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  Harriet grinned and began rooting around in the undergrowth, returning with a handful of cheerful dandelions, white Queen Anne’s Lace and some tangled ivy. ‘For your crown,’ she explained with mock solemnity. ‘Every faerie has to have a floral coronet.’ Thea suffered having the foliage poked into her hair, but scowled when she felt a pin removed, causing a fat corkscrew to fall over her eyes, reminding her she was fundamentally just as wayward as her hard-to-tame hair. She reached up to stop Harriet’s interfering hands and withdrew as hers was impatiently swatted away. ‘Allow me a few curls to feed the muse. I can hardly paint a Celtic riot of hair without something riotous to go on.’

  ‘One pin.’

  ‘Three.’ As they were already sailing through the air into the bushes, it was pointless arguing, so she glared so fiercely that her friend stepped back with her palms raised before she dared pull out one more. ‘I have enough hair... Lounge against the trunk again, Thea. Try to look wistful and magical as you read.’

  Harriet scurried back behind her easel and the peace for Thea to enjoy Mr Wickham in his smart regimentals descended at last—although for some unknown and worrying reason, now Lord Gray’s mischievous, disgraceful dark head was sat on top of the broad shoulders of her fictional hero. And his shoulders were broader, much broader, and his buff breeches tighter. Despite the unwelcome encroachment on her reading pleasure, she stubbornly persevered until Wickham and Lord Gray were interchangeable, one and the same. Distracting and enticing. And thoroughly naked once more.

  It was most disconcerting.

  * * *

  Lord Fennimore shook his head and tucked his pocket watch back in his waistcoat while he watched Gray lead their mounts to the stable. ‘Five hours on horseback! We must be missing something.’ But it was highly unlikely they had. Shortly after dawn the King’s Elite had set off en masse in search of water deep enough for smugglers to utilise that conveniently also ran directly to the sea. Every waterway which had seemed initially promising had tapered off inland, until eventually each group of agents had arrived at the prearranged meeting point in Leiston—the closest point on the Suffolk coast—with the same conclusion. Leiston was the closest significant body of water to Gislingham Hall. And it was two hours away.

  Hardly the ideal distance between a committed, ruthless, prolific smuggler and the hundreds of barrels of illegal French brandy delivered daily on to English shores. ‘Unless Gislingham is not our man at all. Which doesn’t make sense, when we know he’s involved.’

  Their intelligence had been faultless thanks to the new Baroness of Penmor; so faultless that the French side of the operation was in tatters and several English traitors had already been charged before being ruthlessly murdered in gaol by The Boss’s henchmen to ensure their silence.

  If Gislingham was the mastermind of the whole operation, the geographic isolation of the Viscount’s house combined with his obvious poor health had thrown a huge spoke in the wheels. The Boss relied on water and communication and ran a tight ship. While the Viscount clearly had all his marbles and only seemed to suffer from some physical disability, the set-up at the hall did not lend itself to the task.

  Or perhaps it did. So well that nobody would ever suspect foul play. The odd and inconvenient location of his study, the loyal and constantly hovering manservant, that pointed, cold response to his niece when she reasonably suggested he would find life easier downstairs. ‘I like my privacy, Thea.’ Fiercely liked it despite the obvious inconvenience it caused. The jovial, easy fellow had disappeared for a few seconds then, replaced by a calculated, stubborn man whose tone had brooked no argument. The odd look which passed between him and the manservant. There was something there. A dark secret. Gray was sure of it.

  Another agent, posing as their groom, took the reins and led the horses away, leaving the pair of them to wander back to the house, stretching out their aching limbs. ‘We were never going to find what we needed straight away.’ Not when The Boss had run rings around them for two years. As much as Gray wanted a quick resolution, he knew it was also highly unlikely. Suffolk could well be their home for many months. A daunting prospect indeed when just a few days of Lord Fennimore was significantly trying his patience. ‘This was always going to be a waiting game. Now that we have made the acquaintance we can build on it. Once his guard comes down we’ll discover more. We’ve been here three days. I’ll wager in three weeks Gislingham Hall will have given up more of its secrets. In three months...’

  ‘Field work is so frustrating!’

  ‘Which is why you don’t usually do it, sir.’ Although Gray didn’t hold out any hope of the old man disappearing back to his desk in Mayfair any time soon. He wanted The Boss brought to justice more than any of them. Lord Fennimore had built the King’s Elite from scratch and, despite his gruff exterior, felt every agent’s death keenly. They had lost nineteen men in the last two years, nine of whom were slaughtered when they were ambushed at Penmor castle just seven weeks ago. Those losses were still raw. Many more had been injured, including Gray, the cracked bone and damaged muscles in his arm barely healed. This mission was intensely personal for both of them. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think Gislingham likes us.’

  ‘He likes you well enough and seemed to like you all the more once I apprised him of some of your dubious past. That is a good sign.’ The Viscount had found the younger Gray’s exploits entertaining. Unlike his niece, who hadn’t bothered trying to disguise her wholehearted disapproval.

  ‘Not if you want me to seduce Miss Cranford at some point in the future.’ Where had that come from? At no point had a seduction even been tabled, let alone sanctioned.

  Old Fennimore’s bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hair as he glared. ‘I categorically forbid you to seduce Miss Cranford! Or his obviously willing wife for that matter. Both ladies must be our last resort. Especially now that we have made such a good impression on Gislingham. The man might find you amusing and might well see you as some sort of kindred spirit, which is excellent, but I can assure you that will soon stop the moment you make a play for one of his womenfolk.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to seduce Miss Cranford.’ Which was a crying shame because he sincerely wanted to. He couldn’t get her and her tart mouth out of his mind. ‘I was merely pointing out that if you over-egg my scandalous past then it will put her off me for the future—should a seduction be required.’ And Gray was an optimist at heart. If the need arose, he would happily seduce her, for King, country and himself. It might get his unusual, tenacious fascination with the woman out of his system where she had apparently taken root. ‘Besides, it would be foolhardy to completely alienate a potentially fertile source of information.’ Or have her hate him. That would be awful after their splendid flirting and after he had spent all last night and t
he one before dreaming about her. ‘I can be very charming and very persuasive. Who knows more about the Viscount’s comings and goings, save his wife, than his only niece? They are obviously devoted to one another.’

  ‘That is a good point.’ By the look on his face, one his superior had not considered. ‘You are correct. The seeds are sown. Gislingham can make his own enquiries henceforth if he’s a mind to, but I shall cease scaring off Miss Cranford. Just in case. We run the risk of over-gilding the lily and we can’t afford to burn all our bridges so early in the game. Befriend the girl. Earn her confidence—but do not touch.’

  Gray opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it. There was no point questioning why his curmudgeonly superior had agreed with him, as he would only take it back and spoil the victory. The important thing was he had agreed with him. A momentous occurrence in itself. He would take it as a step in the right direction and keep his sarcastic, disbelieving but incredibly witty retort to himself.

  ‘It makes sense for you to be cordial to Miss Cranford and try to pick her brains, although after seeing her reaction to you, her uncle is right. You will have your work cut out. She was heartily unimpressed with you.’

  That stung. Lord Fennimore’s laughter stung more. ‘No, she wasn’t. I thought she enjoyed my flirting.’

  ‘She loathed it, dear boy. Her face was an absolute picture of disgust.’ He was still chuckling, totally unaware how much his words bothered Gray. ‘But while it is vastly entertaining to watch, such things have a tendency to grate after a while. Avoid any and all flirting until you have improved her low opinion of you. From this point, until further notice, you are to be a complete gentleman around her and save the scoundrel for her uncle.’

  Any and all flirting! That blow stung the most of all, despite him seeing the sense in it. For the sake of the mission, the promotion and his constant endeavour to be a better spy, Gray would reluctantly comply. Even if it royally spoiled his mood.