Chapter 4
The Lure of Manly Wiles
Hart sat in the cosy private parlour enjoying a glass of ale.
He hoped Miss Baxter would not take too long with her preparations for dinner, though she did not strike him as the sort of lady who fretted over a loose curl or speck of dust upon her pretty shoes.
Just as well considering the state she’d been in when he’d come across her and her companions.
He grinned at the memory. What a hoyden she’d looked, ankle deep in mud with her skirts hitched up and showing a very shapely pair of calves too. But her eyes were what entranced him. Dark they were, almost black, and promising trouble with a capital T unless he missed his guess.
Everything about her intrigued him, which he could not ever remember thinking about a woman before.
Hart had not been idle during his nine and twenty years on earth.
His past was as littered with love affairs and amorous adventures as any handsome, rich nobleman could hope for.
But that had just been for fun—mutual fun—and jolly it had been.
Miss Baxter, however, was something different, something new.
She wasn’t a lightskirt, for one thing, and gently bred ladies were to be treated with caution.
One could not go about bedding them without expecting to provide a ring and stand before a minister in very short order thereafter.
Though his desire to be their guard dog, was entirely honest and honourable, he could not pretend that Miss Baxter hadn’t lit a spark of curiosity in his breast. He wanted to know what she was doing, why she was doing it, and…
and a whole host of other things he could not yet even articulate to himself.
All he knew was that she was an itch, and he wanted to scratch very badly.
Perhaps the guard dog had fleas, he thought with a grin.
The door swung open and the object of his curiosity entered with her maid.
Hart got to his feet, his approving gaze taking in the sight of her trim figure encased in a sensible yet beautifully made gown of deep forest green.
Though far from low cut, it gave him a glimpse of her elegant shoulders and pearly white skin.
Her thick black hair, tidy now, had been wrestled into submission by a skilled hand and soft curls framed her lovely face.
Those dark eyes, which fascinated him so, gleamed as she met his gaze.
His heart gave an erratic thud behind his ribs.
“Miss Baxter, I hardly recognised you without the mud.”
Her lips quirked as she looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his thighs and the mud spatters that still marred his buckskins. The gesture made heat bloom in his belly and head immediately south.
“I would say the same,” she replied, one elegantly curved eyebrow quirking. “Except that I cannot.”
“Well, my boots are cleaner,” he said, presenting one large foot and a dull black boot for inspection. “Stuck them under the pump in the yard. But I’ve no change of clothes, so I’m afraid I must appear in all my dirt until the morrow. Hopefully, I’ll do better then.”
She laughed, a sound that made his lips curve upwards in response. A short cough from Miss Milly made him realise he was gazing at Miss Baxter like a halfwit. Clearing his throat, he hurried to pull out chairs and see to the ladies’ comfort.
Toby swaggered in a few moments later, looking pleased with himself.
“What’s got you looking like cock of the walk, you young scapegrace?” Hart asked the lad.
The boy sat himself down with a grin and held out a slightly grimy hand. Three large copper pennies filled his palm.
“I won at Pitch and Toss,” he said proudly.
“Would you look at the state of those hands!” Milly exclaimed, quite unimpressed by this triumph. “Lord, have mercy. Miss, I told you it weren’t right for us to be eating with you and Mr Cleaver.”
“Oh, stop fretting, Milly,” Miss Baxter said, looking perfectly at her ease. “Toby will wash his hands. Won’t you, Toby?”
Toby looked less sanguine at this suggestion, but Hart cleared his throat and gave the lad a stern look. With a deal of huffing and muttering, Toby got to his feet.
Milly followed, shaking her head. “I’d best check he actually gets his hands wet,” she said with a laugh, leaving Hart the happy prospect of a few moments alone with Miss Baxter.
He lifted the jug of ale on the table with a questioning expression, but she shook her head. Hart set the jug down and took a swallow from his glass. This brew was stronger and rougher than what he’d drunk earlier, but not bad for all that.
“Has Milly worked for you a long time?” he asked, assuming this was an innocuous enough question.
Still, Miss Baxter looked a little uneasy. “Yes. Since I turned thirteen.”
“You’re close, I think?”
She smiled at that, tugging off her gloves and setting them down on the table beside her. “I suppose so. She frets about me, though that’s a thankless task.”
“Are you a troublesome charge, then?” he asked, keeping his tone light and teasing, though he was fairly bursting to know the answer. He had the delightful suspicion that Miss Baxter was a handful of the most delectable variety.
She stared down at the scarred tabletop and bit her lip.
“You’d best make a clean breast of it,” he said, echoing her words from earlier.
This made her laugh, and she glanced up at him from under thick, sooty lashes.
Hart’s breath caught. Lord above, but she was lovely.
He hoped she wasn’t truly in any trouble, or running from anything.
The realisation that he would do what he could to help her whatever the situation was somewhat unnerving.
“I suppose I am,” she said, raising her head, her chin jutting somewhat defiantly.
“That makes two of us,” he replied, sitting back in his chair, one arm slung carelessly over the curved back as he regarded her frankly. “Why are you really going to Eynsford? And don’t give me that guff about an aunt. Are you meeting a lover?”
To his surprise and gratification, she blushed. It was like watching sunrise on a summer’s morn, the colour rising from a pale touch of rose to a deep apple red. “Certainly not! How dare you insinuate—”
“I didn’t insinuate,” he corrected with a chuckle. “I asked outright. Now don’t fly up into the boughs. I’m glad to hear it, but I thought I’d best ask. A fellow likes to know if he’s stepping on another fellow’s toes, or liable to get his nose broken for no good reason.”
She stared at him, opened her mouth, and closed it again.
Hart snorted. “Yes, I know. I’m a terrible fellow. Uncouth, my sire tells me, but no amount of thrashings has ever improved me. I mean no harm, though.” He put up his hands in a nonthreatening gesture until she let out a huff of laughter.
“I cannot believe you asked me that,” she muttered, shaking her head, but her good humour seemed to have returned.
The door, which Milly had left ajar, opened, and a maid hurried in and began laying the table for their meal.
A round of coarse wheaten loaf, cut into thick slices and accompanied by a jar of dripping, were set down in the centre of the table.
A dish of cabbage and another of carrots followed, before a platter of roast beef—rather overdone to Hart’s eye—appeared to complete the meal.
Milly returned with Toby, whose wet hair suggested the back of his neck had been scrubbed alongside his hands. The maid looked ill at ease sitting down to dinner with her betters, and so Hart exerted himself to entertain her and prove himself easy company.
This he did with little trouble. He had never had difficulty conversing with people of all ranks.
Only his razor tongued grandmother could make him uncertain of himself, and only then because she was a deal sharper than he was.
He was fond of her despite her scoldings, or maybe because of them.
His father simply thought him a fool and a scapegrace, but Hart found he cared less for the old man’s opinions as the years passed.
Though he was belatedly aware of the foolhardiness in having left Little Valentine completely unprepared for this escapade, Hart was not one to borrow trouble.
He had sufficient funds for now, his name carried weight enough to put things on account—if he could do so without Miss Baxter noticing—and, if it came to it, he could pawn something or find a card game.
So, despite their protests at his lavish treatment of them, he ordered a bottle of wine and saw both ladies’ glasses were filled.
Toby inhaled his food at a speed which even Hart could not match. By the time they had dispensed with the cheese and a rather splendid apple pie, the lad was itching to lose his winnings.
“It might be best if you saved that. Take care of the pennies and the pounds take care of themselves,” Milly cautioned him, giving the lad a stern look which he imperiously ignored. “A little Tyburn blossom, that one,” she said, watching him go with a worried frown.
“Oh, no. Toby’s a good boy. He only wants a bit of fun,” Miss Baxter chided gently. “He’s seen little enough of that commodity in his life, poor lad.”
Her expression was one of regret, and Hart found his admiration for the girl growing.
Though some of the well-born ladies he knew had their charitable foundations, he could think of none who would treat a boy in their employ with such indulgence.
She was kind, he realised, and the knowledge was like a little glow of warmth as it settled beneath his skin.
“Where did you find him?”
Miss Baxter opened her mouth to reply and then closed it again. Obviously, she thought the information would give too much away. More cautiously she said, “Toby’s father was a widower. A fisherman. He drowned. Toby needed work, and I knew I could make use of him.”
“You hail from the same village, then?” he asked, wondering if she would let some bit of information slip, and why he was so desperate to glean everything he could.
“Town,” she corrected.
“Ah, where—”
She gave him a pointed look that suggested he give up and Hart sighed.
“It was worth a try,” he said with a shrug.
Hart watched the maid surreptitiously elbow her mistress, no doubt reminding her of the impropriety of being here dining with him. To his amusement, Miss Baxter scowled a little, but she was no match for Milly’s determination to guard her reputation.
With a somewhat resentful sigh, she set aside her napkin and stood up, forcing Hart to do likewise. “Thank you, Mr Cleaver, for another delightful meal. I pray you will allow us to pay for ourselves, however. You have already been too kind, and I dislike feeling beholden to you.”
Hart frowned, moving around the table to face her. “I will do no such thing. You were my guests tonight, and your company has been all the repayment I ask. You have paid any debt in full, I assure you.”
Miss Baxter looked doubtful and appeared to be about to dispute the fact when Hart reached out, taking her hand.
She still wore no gloves, those items resting on the table, and her hand was warm and soft, and terribly small in his far larger, roughened grasp.
A strange sensation swept over him, a desire to be chivalrous, to slay dragons or throw his coat down over a puddle.
For a moment it muddled his brain and he could do nothing but stare at her delicate white hand.
“Ahem.”
Once more, Milly brought him back to his senses, and he looked to Miss Baxter. She was staring up at him, her dark eyes very wide, her cheeks as pink as they’d been when he’d mentioned the existence of a lover.
“Goodnight, Miss Baxter,” he said, rather startled to discover his voice had lowered an octave. It sounded like thunder rumbling in the distance. He cleared his throat self-consciously, adding more briskly, “I shall see you in the morning.”
Miss Baxter didn’t move.
“Yes, indeed, Mr Cleaver. Bright and early. We expect to be on our way at seven thirty, isn’t that right, Miss Baxter?”
The maid practically shouted the girl’s name, making her jump slightly. Blinking, Miss Baxter’s cheeks grew rosier still as she turned to Milly. “Y-Yes, Milly. Bright. Early. Goodnight, Mr Cleaver.”
Hart watched them go and stood staring at the door for some time after it closed behind them, a foolish grin wreathing his face. Well, then. It definitely wasn’t just him.
“Good Lord,” Angel said, blinking dazedly as Milly closed the door behind them. “Good Lord! He is… He is…”
“Dangerous,” Milly said darkly, taking her mistress by the arm and practically towing her up the stairs.
Angel followed, still trying to struggle free of all the…
the sensations that Mr Cleaver had provoked when he’d taken her hand.
Not being a complete ninny, Angel was aware of the birds and the bees and had always heeded her mother’s warnings about what wicked men wanted from innocent girls.
Still, she was not averse to a little light flirtation if a handsome fellow crossed her path.
Never in her life had the touch of a man’s hand addled her wits to such a degree, however.
“Can a man have wiles?” she asked Milly as they trudged up the stairs to their room.
Milly cast her a curious glance over her shoulder. “What, now?”
“Wiles. People always speak of feminine wiles. Like, how a not quite proper lady caught some poor gentleman with her feminine wiles. Do you think Mr Cleaver has manly wiles?”
Milly snorted. “He’s got summat, I’ll give you that, and lots of it.”
Angel smothered a snort of laughter, which set Milly off, and the two ran into their bedroom, breathless with giggles.
But, as Angel closed the door, she could not help reflecting that whilst running away to find Black Jack’s treasure had been risky indeed, the most dangerous thing she’d done so far was letting Mr Cleaver stay.