The Gentleman Spy: A Guardian/Ward Historical Romance

Chapter 15

‘Would you care to join me in the study, Babin? I’d not thought to ask if your call was more than social in nature,’ said Beau as the company in the green parlour stood to leave.

‘I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough, my lord.’

Beau held an arm out, signalling for the man to follow the rest of the party out, and said with false pleasantness, ‘I wish you a good day then.’

‘You take care,’ Babin countered with emphasis, through a smile that was little more than bared teeth.

Beau set the threat aside and thought nothing more of it until he was ambushed on the road to Broadstairs that very night.

Saunders had gone ahead after helping Beau dress for dinner to sit at the pub, watching, listening, observing. Three more times they had visited Broadstairs, but only once were the men moving goods. The distinct lack of glass tinking against glass made them suspect it was a shipment of gunpowder. One way or another, they needed to confirm their suspicion, by luck, by coercion, or by opening the cellar doors themselves.

As Beau neared the barn where they had previously stabled their horses, an aura of expectation settled over him. His blood thrummed, his skin tingled, and a minute later four men on horseback were upon him.

He felled one with a throwing knife to the soft tissue where shoulder meets chest from a distance of several metres. He waited for the other three to come nearer, then dropped from the saddle and sliced through the Achilles of another. From the trees came the scurry of birds woken by a thunderous scream.

One man had turned his horse in the direction of the village. His friend called out, ‘Oi! Where de ye think yer goin’?’ but received only the fading pound of hooves in retreat for an answer.

‘You and me then, guvnor. The boss wants ye roughed an’ I’m happy to oblige. Keep comin’ where yer not wanted and it’ll be much worse for ye.’

Beau would’ve chuckled at the misplaced confidence if he hadn’t been annoyed. A flailing boot caught him in the face as he yanked the man from his horse and quieted his yapping with one punishing jab. With a little shake of his head, Beau walked to the man with the knife in his shoulder and pulled it out. The man howled.

‘May I suggest dousing the wound in some of your illegally procured brandy sooner rather than later? This knife has seen more men than your preferred brothel.’

Beau wiped the blood off on the inside of his black coat, tucked the knife back into the custom lining of his boot, and left them to meet his valet.

‘Let us have a look,’Saunders said the morning after, speaking to Beau as if he were a small child unwilling to remove his hand from his scraped knee.

With a grimace, Beau pulled the roughly hewn pack of ice from his left eye. Saunders sucked in a breath.

‘Indeed.’

Beau roused himself from the chair in his bedroom where he’d been sitting. The ice in his handkerchief had begun to melt and he deposited both in the bowl at his elbow before walking to the mirror to survey the damage himself. It wasn’t so bad as he’d expected—the skin under his eye was mostly pale yellow with hints of purple and blue. Not the worst he’d had, not by a long shot.

‘I pinched some of her ladyship’s Pear’s Almond Bloom,’ said Saunders, removing a small tin from his coat pocket.

Beau’s only reaction was a mildly disapproving stare.

‘If you’d get your own like I suggested…’ The valet let his sentence trail off as he dipped a finger into the powder and began patting the bruised skin. ‘What will you tell the ladies?’

Beau inspected his eye. The powder helped, but nothing would cover the evidence of last night completely. ‘Nothing. A clumsy mistake. Too stupid to explain.’

When he descended to the breakfast parlour and responded as such to his mother’s inquiry, she let her gaze linger on him several seconds, pursed her mouth, and then returned to reading the society pages of The Times. Louisa, who entered a short time later, went so far as to suggest he ought not to ride while foxed. Given he’d never been in his cups around his mother or sister, he wondered where she’d get such an idea. But, as he had no better explanation to offer, he let her assumption stand and made for his study before finishing the bacon on his plate.

He turned the corner just as a flash of muslin disappeared into the music room and called out to Miss Doubleday, reaching the door just as she reappeared. Her expression was one of strained tolerance, but her clamped lips parted in surprise when she noticed his black eye.

‘We are past due for a private conversation, Miss Doubleday.’

‘Another time. This day is given over to refining my accomplishments.’

Beau winced and blamed it on his injury.

‘What happened to your eye?’

‘Nothing. Silly, really. If you have a moment.’ He gestured behind her to the music room.

She remained standing firm in the doorway. ‘I don’t.’

For a long moment, he looked at her, as if his will alone could convince her to unfold a little. ‘It would not please me to compel you, but as your guardian, I will if I must.’

Her black brows slanted into a frown, but Miss Doubleday didn’t acquiesce and allow him into the room behind her. She brushed past him, the fabric of her skirt rustling against his breeches. ‘Miss Doubleday,’ he called, trailing behind her through the corridor. She turned down a set of steps at the back of the house, and he followed her until they came to a stop in the kitchen. The work within halted, everyone turning to stare at the pair. A few faint gasps and a quiet murmur of astonishment rippled round the large, open room.

‘Stay,’ she ordered him, disappearing into a storeroom and returning a moment later with a small jar of something in her hands. ‘Come.’ They retraced their steps, and once in the privacy of the music room, she closed the door. ‘Sit.’

‘Do you always speak to gentlemen as you would a dog?’ he asked, doing as she bid and seating himself in one of the chairs along the wall.

Miss Doubleday came to stand in front of him, so close he could wrap his arms around her, bury his face against her taut abdomen, and drink his fill of her clean, citrus scent. She unscrewed the lid, and he silently accepted it as she held it out for him to take. He watched her ring finger swipe through the contents of the jar still in her hand. ‘As far as I know, curs fight, gentlemen don’t.’

‘Who said anything about a fight?’

‘I suppose I was wrong to compare you to a dog—they’re incapable of lying. Close your eyes.’ With her ring finger, she began to dab the bruised skin around his eye.

Beau tried not to focus on how her touch felt, the warmth of it under the cooling sensation spreading over his tender skin. ‘What is that?’

‘Arnica jelly. It will help with the pain and bruising. You can reapply as often as you’d like, but I suggest forgoeing the powder next time—it acts as a bit of a barrier between your skin and the ointment.’

For the first time in more than twenty years, Beau blushed. ‘Where did you learn to use it?’

‘Mrs Shackley. Her husband?—’

‘Farms wheat and turnips.’ He opened one eye to gauge her reaction, but if she was surprised or displeased to discover he knew who his tenants were as well as she, she gave none of it away.

‘I fell off Calliope jumping a hedge near their cottage. My fault, not the horse’s—I overestimated my ability. Luckily, the only real damage done was to my pride. Mrs Shackley saw from her window and rushed to check on me. Then she soothed my frayed nerves with a little tea and sent me home with some arnica for the soreness and bruises she knew I’d have after a tumble. I’ve sworn by it ever since.’

‘And why the basket the Shackley family receives for Christmas every year has in it a fine canister of Twining’s tea?’ Beau hadn’t realised his eyes had drifted closed again till he felt her finger gliding along the fine edge of his lashes. When her hand came away, he immediately missed the intimacy of her touch, the concern articulated with just a finger. He forced his eyes to open.

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘Why are you back?’

The question hung in the air like moisture after a heavy rain.

‘Because Oakmoss is my home.’

‘It has been for all the years past. Why now?’

‘You wish me gone again?’ Beau didn’t know why the answer mattered to him, but he asked the question anyway.

‘I wished you here when we had a year without summer and many of the crops failed. I wished you here when the Hamiltons’ barn went up in flames, and when scarlet fever took three of the Jones children and two from the Bowers. I stayed up so many nights wishing for your return that I ran out of stars to wish upon.’

‘You need not say more.’

‘Quite right. I’ve had my turn. What are you doing here? Or maybe the more important question is, what are you doing in Broadstairs?’

Beau lowered his gaze, observing how much better his eye already felt. When he looked back at Miss Doubleday, her face was clouded with unease.

‘I cannot say.’

‘Cannot or choose not to? You sneak about like a shadow?—’

‘Once.’

‘Two more times, I’ve counted to date.’

Beau held the bland expression on his face. Once then she had missed him. ‘You’ve been watching me? I’m flattered.’

‘Of course you are.’ She snatched the jar from his hand and returned the lid. ‘You slink about, with your valet, no less. You turn up with a black eye, which I know is related to the sneaking. You know I know it’s related to the sneaking.’

‘And so you would like us to know it together?’ Her expression pinched, and this time he let the corner of his mouth tip up. ‘My concerns are my own, Miss Doubleday.’

‘My concerns are also yours, are they not? Tell me then, what would happen to me if my guardian were to perish or be imprisoned? I am entirely dependent on the generosity of this family. My life would be uprooted once again should the estate’s present owner—that’s you, although it’s occurred to me perhaps you’ve yet to fully realise it—finds himself inconvenienced.’

Her speech deflated him; worse, he couldn’t offer her any guarantee of security or assurance. It was the same problem his father had had and what had precipitated their ferocious row before Beau left for the last time.

‘I cannot?—’

‘Those words again,’ she said, sounding equal parts exasperated and angry, and whirling away from him before taking hard steps back. ‘Are you working for the French? Who was that Monsieur Allard, and why haven’t you mentioned his visit to anyone?’

‘He’s a friend I met abroad, and no.’

‘You’re a smuggler then? Why else would you be by the coast in the dead of night?’

‘The man ready to accost you was a smuggler. I am not involved in anything illegal. You may stop convincing yourself otherwise, although I realise your urge to uncover my flaws is strong. I’m glad we have made our way to this overdue subject. Never, ever again do something so foolish.’

She gasped. ‘I’m the foolish one?’

‘Does that come as some great surprise to you? Had I not turned up when I did, you would have been ruined at best, killed—accidentally or otherwise—at worst.’ He knew both those things had been thrumming through her mind that night, but he spoke them aloud anyway. She had seen him leave the house twice more, and he needed to be sure she was too scared of the consequences to follow him again. Her face was alive with emotion, and he suspected she wished to protest but knew he was in the right. ‘It may not suit you, used to having your own way as you are, but you’ve no right to interfere in my concerns and no claim on how I spend my time or with whom. If you follow me again and are lucky enough to be caught by me and not some lecher, I will lock you in your room till you come of age.’

Miss Doubleday bristled, and as close as she was, he could see her grind her teeth behind her tense lips.

‘And stay away from Babin.’

‘Why?’

‘As your guardian I’m afforded the privilege of not explaining myself to you.’

‘You’re right. It’s much more fun this way. Shall I wager a guess?’ she asked, raising her fine, arched brows, and lifting her eyes skyward in feigned contemplation. ‘Accomplice or rival.’

The muscle in Beau’s jaw ticked.

‘Ah, I see I’m right about one of them. You need not confirm which; I’m satisfied with my own answer. But tell me, if I fail to heed your instruction, what will you do? Club me and drag me back to your lair?’

‘If needs must.’ Beau pushed up from the chair, forcing her to take a step back. In a softer voice, he said, ‘Thank you for this,’ with a vague wave to his eye.

She held out the little jar for him to take, his bare fingertips grazing the soft skin of her upturned palm as he did so. He studied the lines crisscrossing her hand for a moment. His breath suddenly stuck in his chest. How easy it would be to lift her hand, dip his head, and place a light, searching kiss there for her to hold. His lips parted with the thought. An aching need to touch her, to be touched by her, made the hand holding the jar shake ever so slightly. He withdrew, the sharp pain of restraint making his muscles ache.

With a nod, he turned to leave the room. Only years of training away every impulse kept him from looking back.