Deb Marlowe - An Improper Aristocrat

Chione should have been insulted. She stared at his flashing blue eyes, his big frame emanating pride, anger and chagrin, and she was once more reminded of the exaggerated characters in her novels. The Earl of Treyford was prickly, harsh and bossy. He was also clearly angry with himself for not anticipating tonight’s events and honest enough to admit that it was his servant’s precaution that had saved the day—or night.

Though he might be the last to admit it, Lord Treyford was a man of honour. And she was not so easily subjugated as a restless mount.

Clearing her throat, she met his defiant gaze squarely. ‘Then I extend my most heartfelt thanks to Aswan, my lord,’ she said with all sincerity, ‘for I am very glad that you are here.’

Her conciliatory tone mollified Trey, but only for a moment. In the next instant, he grew suspicious. In his experience women used that tone when they wanted something. Her wants did not concern him, only his own needs.

Unfortunately, he became less sure just what they were with every passing moment. Guilt and frustration gnawed at him, and he resented the hell out of it. He had years of experience behind him, decades of avoiding people and the tangled messes they made of their lives. And look what one day in the Latimer chit’s presence had brought him to.

‘Let’s move,’ he said as Aswan opened the door wide enough to get the cart out. ‘Will says the track through the wood will bring us out on to the coast road. From there we’ll go straight to the inn.’

Cautiously, they set out. The forest lay in silence; the few noises of their passage were the only discernible sounds. The coastal path was deserted as well, leaving Trey no distraction from the uncomfortable weight of his own thoughts.

There was no escaping the truth. He hadn’t taken the situation seriously, had not considered that something like this might happen. The thought of that girl, those children and what might have been was unbearable.

Damn it—he was tired of being kept in the dark! What did everyone but him know about that wretched scarab? What was it about the cursed thing that could possibly have stirred these bandits to follow it halfway around the world? He didn’t know, but he was damned sure going to find out.

To that end, and to the hopeful thought that the sooner he dealt with these sneak thieves, the sooner he could shake the Devonshire dust from his boots, Trey left his ragtag group in the care of the disconcerted innkeeper and turned his horse’s head back the way they had just come. Fortunately, the first watchman had not been idle. He had a half-dozen men gathered, and though they were armed only with cudgels and pitchforks and one battered French cavalry pistol, they were eager enough. Trey gave them a terse set of instructions and they set out again for Oakwood Court.

But it was to no avail. The intruders were gone, leaving behind only a thoroughly searched house and a flattened juniper bush below the open window of Miss Latimer’s chamber.

The taste of frustration was not one Trey was overly familiar with. Now he found it had a sour flavour that he did not care for at all, especially when he’d spent the last four-and-twenty hours having it forced down his gullet. So he was in a foul mood as he took to the saddle for what—his third trip today?—back to the little village of Wembury. Aswan wisely kept his own counsel and without a murmur took possession of the horses as they dismounted once again in the inn’s courtyard.

The innkeeper, Mr Drake, had evidently been awaiting their arrival. Trey eyed the man with a bit of distaste; he found him rather dandified for a proprietor of a backwoods inn.

‘Lord Treyford, your…guests have all been accommodated. I must warn you, though, that the boy has been put on a cot in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ Trey answered. ‘Of course, you will apply all of their expenses to my account.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I had wondered…’

Trey was sure he had. In fact, he was sure that the whole village would be wondering by morning. But that was the least of his worries. Was he going to have to wait until morning to get some answers? ‘Are they all abed, then?’ he asked.

‘Aye, they are.’ The man leaned in close. ‘Had you any luck, sir?’

‘Only the ill sort.’

‘Bad news, that is, my lord.’ He shot Trey a wry look. ‘Today all the good citizens of Wembury will be a-twitter with the gossip. Tonight they’ll be wide-eyed in their beds, sure that they will be the ruffians’ next victims.’ Sighing, the innkeeper shook his head. ‘Every rusty blunderbuss in the county will be hauled out of storage, just like in those hungry, restless months after the war. Back then, old Jeremiah Martin shot his own brother in the arse, thinking he was a run-down Peninsular veteran come to steal his prized hog. We’ll be damned lucky if no one is killed.’

Drake heaved another sigh, then slapped a hand down on the counter, startling Trey. ‘Well, then, my lord, I’ve an extremely nice brandy laid out in the private parlour, should you like a nip before you retire.’

Trey hesitated only a moment. It was obvious that Mr Drake was not averse to a little soporific gossip. Suddenly, despite his usual scruples, Trey discovered he might not be averse, either. He needed answers, and he might finally begin to ask the right questions if he had a better understanding of the situation. And tired though he was, somehow retiring to a chamber with Will—and no doubt the dog—held little appeal.

The private parlour was more elegantly done up than one would expect, and the brandy was indeed very fine. Trey leaned back into the comfortably stuffed chair. ‘I would like to think that discretion is one of the services my money will buy, Mr Drake.’

‘Certainly.’ He returned Trey’s look with a sober one of his own. ‘In this case, however, my discretion is of no use to you. The men who rode with you tonight, they will talk.’

Drake held up the decanter and, at Trey’s nod, poured them each a second drink.

‘Gossip, superstition, unlikely tales of the supernatural, and the mysterious,’ Drake said as he settled back into his chair, ‘they are all an integral part of the atmosphere here. The locals thrive on it, repeat it and embellish it.’ With a lift of his chin he indicated the floors above. ‘Your friends, they are favourites, both in the locals’ hearts and in their whispered conversations.’

‘But what the hell is a wealthy shipping merchant like Mervyn Latimer doing setting up his family here?’ Trey nodded his head towards the ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t the lot of them be living in Plymouth, close to the shipping offices?’

Drake sighed and took a drink. ‘Mervyn is a man who likes his privacy. Not easy to come by when you are famous twice over. In addition…’ he leaned closer and lowered his voice ‘…there are rumours that the young lady has dealt with her share of snobbery.’

Trey raised a brow in question.

‘It’s her foreign blood, I suppose, although if you ask me it’s a damned shame. A lovelier girl you couldn’t ask to meet, in every way. But you know how dreadful people can be to an outsider. Here, in a smaller society, it is easier for her.’

‘Not to mention that here the people are more needful of her grandfather’s money?’

‘That too. In any case, we’ve our own deep-water quay, and in his sloop Mervyn could be at his main offices quickly enough.’

Trey took a drink and thought a moment. ‘It seems to me that the girl is a sight more needful of her grandfather’s money than anyone else.’

‘And so she is,’ sighed Drake. ‘But without proof of Mervyn’s death—no body or any known catastrophe such as a shipwreck—the company remains in the hands of its board. Without his influence that group squabbles more than the local Ladies’ Aid Society. So much so that the courts have ordered Mervyn’s shares frozen pending investigation into the matter.’