The Counterfeit Gentleman Read online

  THE COUNTERFEIT GENTLEMAN

  Charlotte Louise Dolan

  STOOPING TO BE CONQUERED

  Miss Bethia Pepperell owed her life to the dark and handsome stranger who called himself Digory Rendel and who had fished her out of the sea. That, however, did not mean she should give him her heart in return. It was unthinkable that as highborn a young lady as she should stoop to be conquered by a man who did not even pretend to be a gentleman. Rendel made no bones about his lowly origins, and he flaunted the fact that he made his living outside the law.

  He laughed when Bethia proposed that he come to London to be her husband rather than the fortune hunters who circled the beautiful heiress like wolves. This maddeningly mocking miscreant was, in short, the last man in the world whom Bethia should have dreamed of desiring...if only he were not the one whom she wildly, willfully, wantonly loved...

  Chapter One

  May 1818

  “There, what’d I tell you,” a voice out of Bethia Pepperell’s nightmares said. “This place is deserted.”

  A second voice that had also come and gone like a will-o’-the-wisp through her dreams replied, “So you say. I say there could be an entire regiment of preventatives not a hundred yards away.”

  Forcing her eyes open, Bethia discovered she was half sitting and half lying on the seat of an unfamiliar coach. Its interior was grimy, its squabs stained and frayed. Moreover, a cold fog was insinuating its damp tendrils through the door and reaching out for her with ghostly fingers.

  “If we can’t see them, then they can’t see us. Stands to reason.”

  “Well, it’s still making me nervous, so hurry up and bring her along before the fog lifts.”

  Vague memories slipped and slithered through Bethia’s mind—memories of a man who’d held her while a second man forced her to drink wine made bitter with laudanum—and instinctively she shut her eyes and feigned unconsciousness.

  Unseen hands caught her and dragged her out of the coach. Then the man slung her over his shoulder as easily as if she were a bag of meal.

  There could be no doubt that they were somewhere on the coast, for the scent of the sea was all around her. After they had gone only a few yards, the footsteps of the two men began to echo hollowly. Opening her eyes just for a minute, Bethia saw heavy wooden planks, and in the cracks between them she could glimpse dark, murky water.

  Even with her wits befuddled, it was not hard for her to deduce that she was now being carried the length of a dock.

  Her thoughts gradually became clearer, and by the time the men lowered her into a small boat, she remembered the way the larger man had burst into her bedroom and abducted her. What a fool she had been to think herself safe behind a locked door.

  Oars rattled in oarlocks, and when she felt the boat begin to move through the water, she risked opening her eyes the merest crack. The dock had already been swallowed up by the fog, and there was nothing to be seen but the dark form of a larger boat.

  Soon even that ghostly shape was no longer visible, and still the man with the pocked face rowed on.

  More than likely they were taking her out to a yacht where her wicked cousin was waiting, ready to carry her to France where she could be forced to marry him even against her will.

  Or so he doubtless thought. None of her three cousins knew her very well, or they would have realized just how obstinate she could be when someone tried to bend her will. Moreover, although she had never thought of herself as vindictive, she was quite determined to make the cousin who had instigated this abduction pay for every indignity he was causing her to suffer.

  Before she could decide the best way to thwart his intentions, the rocking of the boat destroyed what little control she had over her stomach. With a moan, Bethia leaned over the edge of the boat and cast up her accounts in a most unladylike manner.

  “The devil take her, she’s awake,” the larger man said, leaning on his oars. “We’d better give her some more laudanum.”

  “I left it in the coach,” the smaller man said, “but it doesn’t matter—she doesn’t have enough strength to try anything.”

  “Then we oughter tie her up proper, so she can’t get away.”

  “Get away? Don’t be daft. There’s nothing she can do, so hold your tongue and get on with it. This fog is making me nervous.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the larger man began to row again.

  “How much longer?” the smaller man asked, voicing the same impatience that Bethia was feeling.

  “If we don’t go far enough south-southeast, the current won’t bring the body back to shore tomorrow.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know why I was fool enough to think you know what you’re doing,” his companion said, peering intently ahead, as if by sheer will power he could see through the mist and discover how close they were to their destination.

  “You may know London like the back of your hand, but you’d be as helpless as a newborn babe out here on the water ’thout me. Why, you don’t even know how to row a boat. You’d prob’ly end up going in circles, and then when the fog lifted, you’d find yourself sitting right by the dock—and the next thing you’d be seeing would be the hangman’s noose.”

  Much of what had happened in the last few days was still unclear to Bethia. But one thing had now become all too obvious: The body they were referring to was hers, and unless she could come up with a quick and effective plan, then when this boat was returned to its mooring, it would be carrying two people rather than three.

  If only she were strong enough to overpower one of the men! If only she could swim! She wished, in fact, that she were a man—wished she knew how to shoot a gun—wished she had a gun to shoot or even a sharp knife.

  But wishing was pointless; her grandfather had always told her that. Facts must be faced squarely and difficult situations met head on had been his guiding principles since he had left home as a young man, out to seek his fortune...

  Oh, if only he had not made such a vast fortune and then died and left it all to her!

  Fiercely, she banished such unproductive thoughts. She would not—could not—meekly accept her fate. With her last breath, she would fight for her life, even knowing it was doubtless a futile effort.

  It was a perfect morning for a smuggling run. The sea was calm, the light fog showed no sign of lifting, and Digory Rendel knew the currents along this section of the coast well enough to be sure that any cask of brandy he might be forced to throw overboard would come ashore in Carwithian Cove with tomorrow’s tide.

  Having retired from smuggling the previous year, however, he had no casks of brandy sharing the space in his rowboat. Ostensibly spending the day fishing, he had been on the water for over an hour and had not yet bothered to bait his hooks. Instead, he was simply allowing his boat to drift with the current while he contemplated the way his life was now drifting just as aimlessly.

  He needed another goal—something to challenge him—something to...

  There was a faint sound of oars splashing, and for a moment his muscles tensed, before he reminded himself that he was now completely respectable, with nothing to fear from any excise man. More than likely it was not government men anyway, but other smugglers, who were now plying their trade in what used to be his territory.

  An imp of mischief made him decide to remain still. If he timed it just right, he might be able to scare the smugglers into tossing their entire load overboard, which would be good for a laugh later over a pint of ale in the Blue Gull, especially if it was his former partner, Jem, in charge of the crew.

  It was not Jem’s baritone that came across the few feet of water separating the two boats, but rather a female voice, forced unnaturally high b
y fear.

  “Please, please, do not do this. I will pay you any amount you require if you will only spare my life.”

  “We’ve already been paid well enough,” a man replied—a Cornishman by his accent, but not someone whose voice Digory recognized.

  “However much it is, I will double the sum—triple it even.”

  “Aye, and then where’d we be if ’twere known that we’d gone back on our word? Out of a job is where, because who’d trust us with their dirty work if it got about that we took bribes? We’re honest criminals, and we’ve our reputation to think about.”

  “You are cold-blooded murderers is what you are.”

  “But not double-dealers; that is a distinction I value. Moreover, I’ve never taken orders from a woman, and I don’t fancy starting now.” The second man’s English was more cultured, as if he’d had at least a smattering of education.

  Suddenly, there was a sound of scuffling, and Digory took advantage of the men’s temporary distraction to remove his boots and jacket, slide a knife under his belt, and roll as noiselessly as possible over the side of the boat and into the water, where he clung to the gunwales and waited for his next opportunity.

  “Blast it all! I tol’ you she oughter be tied up proper like.”

  “That’s not a matter for us to decide. The gentleman who hired us was most specific. It must look like an accidental drowning, and ropes might leave suspicious marks on her skin.”

  “Then you oughter’ve given her another dose of laudanum this morning, ’cause she’s marked me right and proper—scratched me like a little she-cat. I’ve a mind to teach her more respect.”

  “None of that, now. There’ll be no shortage of wenches for a man with the kind of money you’ll be getting.”

  “So you say, but I got a hankering to try out a real lady. More than likely she’s a virgin, too. Seems a pity to send her to the devil ’thout even—Owww! She bit my hand!” There was more scuffling and then the sound of a loud slap, and without letting his arms break the water, Digory swam the few yards separating him from the others. As their boat emerged from the gloom, he was relieved to see that the men’s backs were turned toward him.

  Staying low in the water and as close as possible to the boat, which nudged against his shoulder every time the occupants shifted position, he could only hope that the girl would keep the men’s attention firmly fixed on her.

  Each of the men had a pistol stuck in his belt, and if even one of them glanced over his shoulder, there would be two bodies washing up on the sand with tomorrow’s tide.

  “I’ll take a whip to you myself, Jacky-boy, if you don’t settle down to business. That’s always been your problem—you let yourself get distracted at the damnedest times. If I had it to do over, I’d leave you in the gin shop where I found you.”

  “Don’t forget who knows the currents and who don’t,” Jacky-boy said with a sneer. “Fact is, you need me more than I need you, so maybe I should have more than half the earnings.”

  For a moment it looked as if the two men were going to have a falling out, which Digory planned to use to his advantage. But as luck would have it, the girl managed at precisely the wrong moment to get one hand free. She immediately began pounding her fist on her captor’s arm, which distracted both men from their quarrel.

  Ignoring her ineffectual blows, Jacky-boy lifted her off her feet and swung her out over the water.

  Taking a quick breath, Digory dived under the boat and came up on the other side, almost directly under a pair of shapely legs surrounded by billowing petticoats trimmed with lace.

  Carefully keeping the girl between himself and the men in the boat, he grasped one trim ankle firmly. At the touch of his hand the girl began screaming hysterically and kicking wildly, but Digory only held her more tightly, knowing that if he even momentarily lost his grip, the weight of her clothing would pull her down, and he would have to be lucky indeed to find her once that happened.

  “Get on with it and throw her in before someone hears her.”

  “The devil take her! She’s clinging worse than a barnacle.”

  All at once the girl stopped struggling, as if she had finally realized it was a human hand holding her ankle, and a moment later her full weight came down on Digory, pushing him deep under water.

  Precious seconds were lost before he could untangle himself from her skirts, but after what seemed an eternity, he had one arm firmly around her waist. His other hand was covering her mouth and nose, and his legs were straining to get them both as far away as possible from the murderers’ boat before he was forced to come up for air.

  The girl was a dead weight in his arms, which made his task easier while at the same time making him afraid he was wasting his efforts. She might already have inhaled a fatal amount of seawater, but if he came up too soon, the fog would not conceal them adequately and both of them would be at the mercy of the paid assassins, who did not appear to be the slightest bit merciful.

  When his lungs could stand it no longer, Digory kicked his way to the surface, praying that the fog would conceal them. The girl’s head lolled on his shoulder, but he was relieved to hear her taking great gulps of air through her mouth. He pressed one finger to her lips, and she nodded weakly, indicating she knew what he meant, but it was a moment before she was able to moderate her gasping.

  “She must’ve sank like a stone. Strange.”

  Jacky-boy’s voice sounded too close for comfort, and it brought back too many memories of other occasions when Digory had escaped from dangerous situations with his skin intact—more or less.

  Very gently, so as not to make the slightest sound, he began kicking with his feet, not actually swimming, just trying to put a bit more room between the two of them and the men in the boat.

  “What’s strange about it? She couldn’t swim, and besides, no one could stay afloat long wearing as many clothes as she had on.”

  To be sure, the girl whose head was now supported against his shoulder was decidedly prettier than any of Digory’s former comrades had been. The water seemed to give her dark brown hair a life of its own, and it swirled caressingly around his neck.

  “Still and all, I’d’ve expected her to thrash around at least a little,” Jacky-boy said, sounding quite aggrieved. “There’s no sport in it this way.”

  Digory wondered idly if the two men in the boat included swimming among their skills. He would have found it amusing to see how long they thrashed around before sinking, but his first priority must be to get this girl ashore. And even when she was safe, he needed the two men alive so that he could persuade them to reveal the name of the man who’d hired them.

  “She’s drowned, you lummox, and that’s all there is to it. And tomorrow, just as soon as we ‘discover’ the body, we can collect the rest of our money. Now get us back to shore.”

  The girl had her arms around Digory’s neck now, and their bodies were so close in the water, his legs kept bumping hers with every kick. Looking down, he saw she had dark brown eyes, which appeared too large for her face. The salt water made her lashes cling together, making her look as if she’d been crying.

  But he’d heard her in the other boat, and she had not been weeping piteously. She must have known how slim her chances were, and yet she had bargained for her life, her resolution never wavering.

  Finally, Digory heard the welcome sound of oars rattling in the oarlocks, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that today of all days he had followed his whim and gone fishing. It was appalling that a person’s life could depend on such a chance event.

  Gradually, the noise of the other boat became fainter and fainter until nothing could be heard but the cry of a lone sea gull.

  “Who are you?” a dulcet voice whispered in Digory’s ear.

  “My name is Rendel. I am a...” He hesitated briefly, then said simply, “I was fishing when I first heard you.”

  “You have a boat? Oh, thank goodness.”

  “I am afraid it can do u
s little good now since our chances of finding it in this fog are remote. But that is no great matter. We will simply swim to shore and leave my boat to follow in its own good time.”

  “Oh.”

  A wealth of disappointment was in that one word, but there was little that Digory could say to reassure her. “I am a strong swimmer, and I have lived in this area all my life, so I am quite knowledgeable about the currents and the tides. And if I had to guess, I would estimate that we are only a half mile or so from shore.”

  “But how can you tell which way to go in this fog?” the girl asked, and he was pleased that she was managing to keep almost all the fear out of her voice. She was no coward, this one, and in spirit, although not in looks, she reminded him of his half-sister, Cassie.

  “I was born with a natural sense of direction, and the tide is with us, so we have nothing to worry about,” he said without adding that if the tide turned before they were safely on shore, even he might not be a strong enough swimmer to save them.

  But he had no intention of saying anything that would shatter the girl’s self-composure, which he suspected was hard won. “We will make better progress if you could dispense with your petticoats.”

  If she had been a girl from the village, he would have bid her take off her skirt also, but such a demand would not do for a lady, especially when their situation was not yet dire.

  “I shall do my best to untie them,” she said, and while she struggled to undo the knots, he did his best to keep both their heads above the water.

  Finally, she gave up her efforts. Once more wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered, “I am afraid the saltwater has made the knots too tight.”

  “Then I shall have to cut them,” Digory murmured, sliding his hands up under her skirt.

  She gasped and stiffened in his arms, but she neither jerked away nor cried out.