Compromised Miss. Anne O'Brien
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his thigh and held the smeared glass. He chuckled. ‘You mightn’t like what you see, though.’
It was a shock.
‘By God! That’s a mess.’ Lucius looked at the reflection in the mirror. Ran his fingers over the growth of beard and then, gently, down the livid scar on his cheek, flinching at the soreness. If vanity was an issue, if his looks mattered as much to him as it did to his younger brother who was in the throes of incipient dandyism, he would be cast into despair. Together with the purple bruising on his temple and jaw, and the matted hair stuck to his head with God knew what, he looked a criminal fit for Newgate. ‘It’ll heal, I expect.’ He winced as he once again pressed his fingers against the knife wound.
‘So Capn Harry said. He cleaned it up as well as he could.’
‘Hmm. Then let’s see if we can put the rest to rights.’
Within the next half-hour Lucius had to admit to looking relatively more respectable. Shaving complete, he struggled into boots and breeches—fortunately his own, if hopelessly stained—and a linen shirt that was not his, but of good quality.
‘Best we could do.’ George gave him a helping hand to pull on the boots. ‘Meggie’s trying to find you a coat. Yours isn’t in a fit state. Until we do—what do you think of this, y’r honour?’ He held up the dressing gown with a rough flourish, unable to repress a guffaw.
‘Hell and the Devil! Now that’s an eyeful.’ Lucius grinned as he shrugged his right arm carefully into the vibrant glory of rampant dragons. The other he couldn’t manage so allowed the magnificent beasts on the left to simply hang.
‘Sir Wallace’s.’ George smirked. ‘We borrowed it. Like the shirt. He’s an eye to fashion.’
‘Has he now?’ Looping the belt, Lucius was willing to tolerate it for the sake of respectability. ‘My thanks. Now, if you can find me a coat and a horse, I’ll be out of your hair. If I can get to Brighton…’
George shook his head. ‘Don’t think you should ride, y’r honour. Not with the blood you lost. I can arrange a pony and trap easy enough from the Silver Boat to get you to Brighton. If you had money,’ he added slyly.
‘And there’s the rub. But we’ll work something out.’ Lucius rubbed his hand over his newly shaven cheek. ‘I had a gold hunter with me when I went to France.’
‘Not any longer, sir. Gone the way o’ the rest o’ y’r possessions.’
A peremptory knock on the door.
It heralded the entrance of a man driven by righteous anger and blunt discourtesy. His accusation followed without introduction.
‘So the tales in the village were right enough.’ The visitor slammed the door behind him, eyes narrowed into a glare. ‘What’s this? A nameless ruffian dragged from the high seas, and wearing my dressing gown?’
Lucius resisted the inclination to raise his brows at the intrusion, struggling to keep a civil tongue in his head. Nothing to be gained by taking the offensive. The man—a gentleman despite his lack of good manners—was perhaps thirty-four or -five, around Lucius’s age, clad in a fashionable greatcoat of indeterminate drabness reaching to his ankles, with innumerable shoulder capes, the whole magnifying his rotund appearance and short stature. His face was broad, his complexion florid, telling of a close association with Free Trade liquor. Lucius heard George clear his throat uncomfortably. So this was Sir Wallace Lydyard, owner of the dubious taste in garments. But Lucius did not appreciate the overt hostility, the sheer lack of good manners or breeding.
‘My apologies, sir,’ Lucius replied as he rose slowly to his feet. A cool chill, the curtest inclination of the head, a deliberate lack of recognition. He would not be reduced to such discourtesy but, by God, he would not ignore such rank ill manners. ‘The rumours you were so quick to take at face value are incorrect. I was an innocent traveller in France, injured and robbed through no fault of my own. Fortunately I was rescued by some gentlemen of the Free Trade.’ Now, deliberately, he allowed his brows to lift infinitesimally. ‘I was not aware that that entitled me to be painted as a ruffian of the high seas.’
‘No?’ Sir Wallace was not to be discouraged. ‘What is any law-abiding Englishman doing in a French port if not to England’s danger, when the French are our sworn enemies, even at this moment engaged in battle with our brave forces in the Peninsula?’
‘Urgent business of a family nature that can be of no possible interest to you, sir.’ The raised brows were superb in their arrogance. Lucius had had enough of slurs on his character. ‘If I am making use of your splendid garment, then I must offer you my thanks. My own coat is ruined or I should not have taken such a liberty. Perhaps you would be so good as to advise me of your name, sir?’
‘Lydyard. Sir Wallace Lydyard.’
Again Lucius managed the slightest inclination of his head, icily polite, a barbed and poisonous weapon to depress pretension and boorishness. ‘Lydyard. Let me make myself known, to clear any misunderstanding between us. I am Lucius Hallaston. Earl of Venmore.’
‘Venmore!’
‘That is so.’
Sir Wallace was flustered. ‘My lord…’ For once Lucius enjoyed the effect of his consequence with not a little malice. ‘Perhaps I was hasty.’ An unattractive flush mantled Lydyard’s features. ‘You’ll understand—the circumstances, your presence here at the Pride…’
‘I was unconscious when I was brought ashore. A bullet wound.’
Lydyard’s eyes suddenly acquired an unpleasant reptilian gleam, and his glance snapped to George Gadie. ‘Did you spend the night here, Gadie, to care for his lordship?’
George shuffled. ‘No, Sir Wallace. I did not.’
‘You were not here at the Pride?’
‘No, Sir Wallace. The Cap’n sent me home.’
‘So I heard correctly.’ Sir Wallace’s voice was soft, a slyness sliding across his features. ‘My sister stayed here last night, then.’
‘Aye, Sir Wallace.’
Lucius remained silent, unable to follow this line of exchange, even more when Lydyard’s speculative appraisal was turned on him.
‘You look much restored this morning, my lord.’
‘Well enough to take my leave,’ he replied curtly, yet with restraint. There were suddenly undercurrents in the room that made no sense to him, but his patience was at an end. No man addressed a Hallaston of Venmore in such an impertinent manner!
‘Knowing my sister, I suppose she spent the night at your side, in this room.’
A warning flitted across his skin, like a draught from an ill-fitting window. ‘Your sister, sir? I have no knowledge of your sister.’
With a grunt, Sir Wallace promptly turned on his heel and marched to the door. Opened it. ‘Jenny?’ he bellowed, followed by a distant reply of assent. ‘Tell my sister I wish to see her here immediately.’
Then he continued to stand beside the door, arms folded.
Lucius rummaged unsuccessfully through his incomplete recollections. He recalled Jenny, the dark-haired maid. But Lydyard’s sister? ‘As I said, as far as I have any memory of last night, I am not acquainted with your sister, sir.’
But Sir Wallace’s lips curled in marvellous disbelief. ‘Do you presume that your birth and title will allow you to compromise my sister? She spends a night here with you, in this very bedchamber, and her honour is besmirched.’ He lingered on the word. ‘However well bred she might be, however excellent her connections, she is unwed and, apart from myself, defenceless. What will her reputation be now? I had a marriage in line for her, but the bridegroom will surely cry off when he gets wind of this, my lord.’
‘As far as I am aware, my care was undertaken