The Counterfeit Gentleman Read online

She heard the door behind her opening, then Mr. Rendel asked, “Are you dressed?”

  Stifling a giggle, she answered in her most solemn voice, “That, I am afraid, is a question I am not at all capable of answering.”

  After a pause she heard his footsteps crossing the room. Swiveling around to greet him, Bethia was so amazed by his transformation, she lost all power of speech and almost lost her grip on the quilt as well.

  Gone were the rough homespun shirt and breeches of a fisherman. Dressed now in a black jacket, burgundy waistcoat, and fawn-colored unmentionables, Mr. Rendel was in every way the proper country gentleman. To be sure, the jacket he wore could not completely disguise the extraordinary breadth of his shoulders or the powerful muscles of his arms.

  And despite his sartorial elegance, she could not quite forget what this man had looked like in his shirt sleeves and wet breeches. When they had emerged from the water, she should have modestly averted her eyes. Why she had not done so was a question she did not feel up to coping with at this moment.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “I am quite warm, thank you,” she murmured, lowering her glance lest he read her thoughts, which were becoming even more brazenly improper. She felt heat rise to her face, and she could only pray he would think her high color was due to her proximity to the fire.

  One other thing she had noticed even while trying to pretend that it did not matter one way or another—it would seem that Mr. Rendel lived here quite alone.

  Not only did he lack a maid or a housekeeper, but he seemed to be in other ways similarly unencumbered. No wife or children had greeted him upon his return, and there was no sign that any woman shared his abode. There was no loom or spinning wheel, no butter churn, no wifely shawls hanging on the hooks by the door...

  “Your hair is not drying fast enough,” he said, coming up behind her and taking a strand between his fingers.

  At the touch of his hand, her heart gave a lurch, then speeded up of its own accord.

  “If you wish, I can brush it dry for you.”

  For a brief moment modesty warred with desire. Despite her the thoroughly improper path her thoughts had been wandering down, she knew quite clearly where her duty lay.

  It was, of course, totally out of the question to allow any man—other than a husband, which she did not at the moment have—to touch her so intimately. Especially since she had not even settled the question of whether or not a quilt constituted proper attire for an unmarried lady visiting a bachelor in his abode, which in and of itself was a totally unforgivable breech of decorum. Quite scandalous, in fact.

  And despite knowing that even thinking about allowing Mr. Rendel to brush her hair would scandalize the old biddies who were her aunt’s friends, if she were to be honest, Bethia had to acknowledge a strange longing to feel this man’s hands touching her again.

  In the end—could she blame it on her fatigue?—desire easily overcame good sense.

  Looking up into gray eyes that betrayed no emotion, Bethia nodded mutely, and without speaking, Mr. Rendel vanished once again through the doorway at the other end of the cottage. When he returned, her cheerful mood vanished, for he carried in his hand an elegant, ebony-backed brush. Unfortunately, there could be no doubt that it was a lady’s brush.

  It would appear that Mr. Rendel did have a woman in his life. Was he married after all?

  Or perhaps it did not belong to a lady? Might the brush have been left here by his mistress?

  Or perhaps the owner of the brush, be she lady or otherwise, no longer belonged in his life?

  While Bethia was still considering the implications of the brush, Mr. Rendel began to untangle her hair, and Bethia had to bite her lip to prevent a sigh from escaping.

  Knowing she was being a fool did not prevent her from feeling jealous at the thought of another woman in this man’s arms, and she surreptitiously used the quilt to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  As irrational as it was, she felt that she belonged somehow to Mr. Rendel. Which meant he must also belong to her, did it not? Or did saving her life involve an obligation only on her part?

  Mr. Rendel was as careful as her dresser would have been, first working out all the snarls, then pulling the brush in long, soothing strokes through her hair.

  But his touch was like a lover’s caress, and his very gentleness sent shivers up and down her spine. She could not forget that he was not her maid—that he was every inch a man.

  Maybe he was a gentleman ... but then again, maybe he was not. At this moment she felt so odd, she was not at all certain in her own mind which she wished him to be.

  Were these strange feelings natural after one had narrowly escaped death? Were they merely a kind of hysteria brought on by having almost been murdered? She disremembered hearing about other people’s near escapes from death—coming a rasper on the hunting field being something altogether different.

  No, she was the only person she knew who’d had a near fatal accident—in her case more than one. On the way back from Hampton Court Palace, Lord Keppel had saved her from what could have been a fatal fall from her horse. But now that she considered the matter, she felt nothing more for him than the same gratitude she had felt for the unknown merchant who had prevented her from falling under the wheels of the brewer’s wagon.

  Which could mean that the intensity of emotion she was now feeling was not—or at least not entirely—the result of Mr. Rendel’s having saved her life.

  Unfortunately, the longer he brushed her hair, the more difficult it was becoming for her to keep her thoughts in order. “I think you shall have to marry me,” she murmured, not aware of what her words would be until it was too late to call them back.

  Chapter Three

  “And I think you have had quite enough to drink,” Mr. Rendel said, laying down the brush and lifting the empty cup from her hand.

  Bethia knew it was not the punch talking, but a strange lassitude was making it difficult to debate the matter properly. She did not utter any objections when Mr. Rendel picked her up, quilt and all, and carried her through the doorway into the next room, which turned out to be a reassuringly masculine bedroom.

  He laid her down between sheets that smelled of sunshine and lavender, then pulled more blankets around her, tucking her in as if she were a small child.

  Only when he did not lie down beside her on the bed, which was wide enough for two, did she try to protest. “Don’t leave me alone,” she said, her tongue feeling rather thick in her mouth. “Please stay with me.”

  “I will be close at hand,” he said, “and I will come at once if you need me.”

  “I need you now,” she said, feeling no surprise or shame at her own boldness, but he merely chuckled and went out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  She was too tired to climb out of the bed and follow him ... too tired to insist... or perhaps she had indeed imbibed too much of the spicy punch.

  Still and all, marrying Mr. Rendel was a remarkably good idea, and she felt proud of her cleverness at thinking of such a thoroughly splendid solution to her problems.

  She had no doubt at all that she would like being married to him—to this man who had emerged like the god Neptune from the sea to save her from a watery grave.

  Not only was Mr. Rendel singularly attractive, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could trust him with her life. And once they were married, she would no longer be in danger of assassination.

  Curled up in his bed, her head on his pillow, she tried to stay awake to plan what had to be done—what arguments she might use to convince him—but it became harder and harder to fight against her fatigue.

  Finally giving up the losing battle, she allowed herself to drift off to sleep, and just before consciousness faded completely, it seemed to her that she could feel his arms around her ... but she was too tired to open her eyes and see if he was really there or if he was merely a figment of her imagination.

  It had been a mistake, Digory real
ized, to have given her any punch. Hot tea would have doubtless been adequate to warm her, although in truth he could not have foreseen that she would help herself to several cups of the spicy beverage.

  Stone sober she would never, of course, have proposed marriage with a total stranger, nor would she have invited him to join her in bed.

  Scruples were a damnable burden at times, and never more so than when she had looked up at him, her eyes and her voice both pleading with him to stay with her.

  But there were murderers abroad tonight, and there were few enough hours left to prepare a trap. Checking one last time to be sure his guest was still sleeping, Digory let himself out of his cottage, locking the door behind him.

  It had been nearly a year since he had given up smuggling, and when he sent word that there would be a meeting tonight, Jem and the others would all be quick to say, “I told you so.”

  None of them had actually believed Digory was serious when he’d announced his retirement, but he minded not that tonight would bring their ridicule down upon his head, so long as they were willing to help him.

  It was a measure of how much distance he had put between himself and his former subordinates that he did not even know if they were here in Cornwall. They could easily be in France, purchasing a boatload of kegs filled with brandy. Or given that it was the dark of the moon, they might be planning to move a load inland tonight.

  On that point, Mrs. Pollock was able to reassure him. Jem, who was her sister’s son, and the other smugglers were presently between trips, and she offered to send one of her boys to pass the word that Digory wanted to see them.

  Although she invited him to join her family for a bite of supper, Digory could not completely stifle the feeling that something unforeseen might have occurred in his absence—or even merely that Miss Pepperell might have awakened and found him gone, which would have been bad enough—so he declined his neighbor’s offer and walked as quickly as possible back along the lane to his own cottage.

  Entering it, he found everything precisely as he had left it, and when he peeked into the bedroom, his guest did not appear to have moved a muscle during his absence.

  The dress she had left hanging before the fire was dry, but when Digory examined it, he found it would need more than a good pressing to set it to rights. Luckily, his guest was approximately the same size as his aunt had been.

  Opening a small trunk that served double duty as a window seat, he extracted one of his aunt’s dresses. It was not at all modish, but at least Miss Pepperell would have a choice come morning.

  Tiptoeing into the bedroom, he placed both garments on a chair where she would be sure to notice them when she awoke.

  He was not as quiet as he might have wished, but his guest did not even stir. Seeing her lying there so peacefully, Digory was again sorely tempted to crawl into bed and spend the rest of the night holding her in his arms.

  If he were a gentleman, he would have the right to marry her and share her bed. But he was no gentleman. That being the case, why should he be expected to act like a gentleman and leave her untouched?

  There was no answer to that question, but in the end he tiptoed out of the room, this time closing the door firmly behind him.

  The tedium of sitting in a waterfront tavern for an entire day and what looked as if it would be an entire night made it necessary for Mr. Harcourt to remind himself repeatedly of the rewards that would soon be his if only he used sufficient patience at this crucial point in his marvelous scheme.

  Fortunately, what he had most feared—that one or both of the two men he had hired might be cursed with a loose tongue—did not seem to be the case. Unfortunately, they both seemed to have hollow legs, which the bar maid was doing her best to fill.

  Several times he had almost made up his mind to leave his hirelings alone—to risk having one of them say something untoward, which might later make someone suspect that the accidental drowning was no accident. But the possibility of losing the fortune he had pursued for so long—no matter how slight the risk might be—had kept him there.

  After what he had endured this day, it would be a genuine pleasure to start both Jack Williams and Dick Fane off on their journey to Hades. But first they had to finish the task they had been hired to do. Once they discovered the body, then he could appear on the scene in his rightful identity—the distraught, grief-stricken cousin who had known the unfortunate child was depressed after her grandfather’s death, but who had not thought she would be driven to suicide.

  He would not, of course, try to persuade the magistrate that Bethia had killed herself. Rather he would try so hard to persuade everyone that she had not killed herself, that they would, of a certainty, be brought to believe just that.

  With luck, the body would come in with tomorrow’s tide, or so Williams had asserted. If not tomorrow, then the next day for sure.

  It had better be tomorrow, Mr. Harcourt decided, for he did not have the stomach to sit a second day in this tavern.

  Within twelve hours—thirty-six at the outside—he would be an extremely rich man. Perhaps before he removed Fane and Williams permanently from his life, he should consider if there might not be some way he could arrange to divide his uncle’s money up two ways instead of three.

  One unfortunate accident, and he could have half again as much as he now stood to inherit. And if there were a pair of unfortunate accidents? But then again, one must take into account that too many accidental deaths might arouse suspicion.

  In any event, there was no need to decide right at this moment which of his brothers it would be easiest to dispose of. First he must do his utmost to see to it that poor little Bethia would be allowed the benefits of a Christian burial, even though everyone would believe that she had taken her own life.

  Digory’s former crew came shortly before midnight, and although none of them actually said, “I told you so,” their smirks made it obvious that was exactly what they were all thinking. And never had retirement seemed so pointless as now, when Digory looked around the circle of men—Jem Caravick, who was well endowed with common sense plus the instincts he needed to be a successful smuggler; Harry Tankyn, who had no ambitions to be anything more than he was; and Big Davey Veryan, and his cousin Little Davey Veryan, who were the two largest men in the parish.

  His crew—for a dozen years they had been with him through innumerable dangers, and the bond that had been forged between them was unbreakable.

  But it was only their companionship that Digory missed; he could do without the smuggling. For him the excitement—and with it the enjoyment—had gone out of the trade long before he had actually retired.

  “Just like old times,” Harry said with a grin. “So when do we sail, and is it kegs we’ll be smuggling past the preventatives, or is it men?”

  “This time,” Digory replied with an answering smile, “we do things backward. Today we are going to play the role of preventatives and hide on the beach.”

  It was not the wisest way he could have broached the subject, because the circle of eyes around him instantly became hostile. It would seem, after all, that the friendship between them could indeed be broken.

  Abandoning any further attempts at humor, Digory quickly told them what had happened earlier that day, and how the hired ruffians intended to finish the job at high tide and collect their reward.

  The sound of men’s voices woke Bethia from a deep sleep, and for a moment her mind was filled with the terrible need to remain completely motionless so that her abductors would not notice she was awake, else they would force more laudanum down her throat.

  But as soon as the muzziness cleared from her mind, she remembered clearly the events of the day before, when she had awakened from a drugged stupor filled with hideous dreams, only to find herself trapped in a waking nightmare that was worse than anything that had come to her in her laudanum-induced slumber.

  Hearing Mr. Rendel’s voice in the other room, she remembered how he had magically appeared to save
her from a watery grave. And she remembered also how his hands had felt on her waist—remembered how safe she had felt in his arms.

  Her suggestion of the previous day had apparently not been totally inspired by the punch, because even now, stone sober, she could not think of any better solution to her present dilemma than to marry him.

  The only problem was that Mr. Rendel had not taken her proposal as seriously as she had meant it. But that was a minor matter and soon remedied. Once he understood what a wonderful opportunity she was offering him, he would not be slow to seize it. She was, after all, an heiress, and she knew from experience that gold was a more powerful lure for men than a pretty face and a dainty ankle.

  With difficulty she fought her way free from the tangle of quilt and bedclothes and stood up, wrapping the quilt around her again for want of anything else. Remembering her mental debate of the previous afternoon as to whether or not a quilt constituted proper attire, she realized that Mr. Rendel had had good reason to think her more than a trifle bosky.

  The room was dark now, the only illumination coming from a single candle, and tiptoeing over to the door, she opened it enough that she could peek out and see who was there.

  At the sight of the large men filling the other room, she had to fight off the urge to scurry back to bed and hide herself under the covers. But gathering her courage around her like a second quilt, she noiselessly shut the door and looked around for something to wear.

  She discovered that her dress, which she had left drying in front of the fireplace in the other room, was now draped over the back of a chair. It would seem that Mr. Rendel had come in while she was sleeping.

  Her face grew hot just thinking about him standing beside her, looking down at her lying in his bed. What had he thought? Had it been difficult for him to resist the temptation to slide under the covers and take her in his arms?