Gambling on a Scoundrel (22 page)

She glanced at the remaining still-f glass on the tray. Father had often imbibed in a bit of whiskey on a cold, damp evening, but she'd never tried it. She hadn't really intended to order one for herself, but perhaps she could give it a try. After all, this was a bit of a holiday, wasn't it? She picked it up and took a sniff. Its sharp, smoky scent seemed specifically designed for her current surroundings.

She glanced at Lucien. He was watching her, and the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Did he think she wouldn't drink it? She raised her chin at the challenge. If he thought she'd be too missish, he didn't know her very well.

Tempy brought the glass to her lips and tipped back her head, swallowing half of the liquid in a gulp, mimicking the motion Lucien had made.

She immediately regretted it. The whiskey burned, and liquid fire ran down her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes and a hacking cough burst from her mouth. She covered her lips with the back of the hand that still held the whiskey glass, and as she continued to cough, Lucien began thumping on her back with the flat of his hand.

"Have a sip of tea," he said, pulling the whiskey glass from her grip and replacing it with her half-empty teacup.

She followed his advice, and the tepid liquid soothed the fire in her throat.

"I see you've never drunk whiskey before. It seems that I'm introducing you to a number of firsts. Wasn't that your first glass of champagne as well?"

First champagne.

First whiskey.

First real kiss.

Tempy's throat tightened, and she set down her teacup with clatter. The kiss. Was that why he'd been staring at her so intently before she drank the whiskey? Was he remembering what had happened the last time he'd offered her something containing alcohol?

Instead of answering him, she stood and yanked the blanket from her shoulders. She couldn't trust herself to look at Lucien, so she busied herself with folding the blanket as neatly as possible.

Tempy knew that if she looked at him, she'd end up staring at his mouth. Even now, she wondered how it would feel to press her lips against his again. To have those sensations course through her body like tendrils of fire. Warmth began to grow in her that she couldn't attribute to the whiskey.

Perhaps another ride in the rain would cool her off.

She hurried back toward the entrance and Lucien followed. Sanders met them at the door and pressed a bundle into Lucien's hands. "For the young lady," he said, smiling at her.

Lucien murmured his thanks and ushered Tempy outside where they ducked into the cabriolet. Now its roof was up and she could only hope it would keep off the worst of the rain for the remainder of the trip.

Lucien shook open the bundle Mr. Sanders had given him, and Tempy realized it was a large piece of oilcloth. She grinned at the man in gratitude, and then she snapped it open and spread the cloth over her skirts. It smelled sharply of linseed oil, but that didn't bother her as long as it helped keep the water off.

"Thank you," she said to Sanders. "We don't have much farther to go, so this should keep me dry for the rest of our drive."

Sanders smiled and nodded at her, but then froze. Just as Lucien flicked the horse's reins, Sanders said, "I knew it. I knew I recognized you. You're the new earl, what's come back to Exmoor."

Lucien shrugged, as usual. "Might be."

The man chuckled. "This should be an interesting few days. I'd like to be around when news of your arrival reaches certain ears. Just as long as I'm not
too
close. I'd hate to get in the way of any stray blows."

Lucien grimaced. "Then you might want to keep your distance." He flicked the reins and the cabriolet lurched forward, leaving the innkeeper standing in the drizzle and wearing an expression of delighted anticipation.

Tempy peered around the edge of the cabriolet's top, trying to watch the innkeeper, and saw him spin on his heel and hurry into the door of the building. She could hear him shouting, "He's back! Formsworth's bane is back!"

Lucien ignored the man and kept driving.

Tempy watched Lucien's profile. "I see you've been here before. Why didn't you tell him who you were when he first asked?"

"Once that man knows I'm here, so will everyone else in the county, and I was hoping news of my arrival wouldn't precede me."

"He called you Formsworth's bane. What's that all about?"

Lucien shrugged, but said nothing.

Annoying, taciturn man.

But she'd been right about one thing. The rain successfully dampened her ardor.

20 - News Travels Fast

Lucien felt like a dolt. What kind of person rides off in a carriage without making sure that it's in good working order?

A dolt.

But when he'd seen Tempy's excitement at the prospect of making their journey in the cabriolet, he'd never paused to wonder if it had been well maintained.

In retrospect, he really should have known better. Especially considering the lackadaisical attitudes both of his uncles had had toward their inheritance. They never took care of their toys, no matter how much they cost. And his grandfather had been no better.

As they crested a rise, Lucien caught sight of the large, fortress-like estate he'd inherited. His surge of relief at the thought of being dry was mingled with tension. His memories associated with that place were all from long ago, and just now he couldn't think of a single good one.

The reddish stone building rose up from the emerald-green grass like a fist. It was strong and imposing, just like his grandfather had been. Lucien's entire body tensed as he allowed the image of it to sink in, and he worked to alter his perception of the place.

A wing extended to one side. A wing he'd somehow forgotten about over time. It was made of glass, but it didn't glitter in the rain and drizzle, it merely looked flat and gray in the dim half-light. Despite that, his spirits lifted, just a little, at the sight of it. He'd always been intrigued by the estate's conservatory, and now it was his.

So, with slightly improved spirits, Lucien pulled the cabriolet in front of the main entrance of his estate. Just a few minutes later, the coach bearing Millicent, Boothby, and Mary arrived.

Boothby quickly assessed the bedraggled state of his employer and had all of the baggage delivered to the appropriate rooms within minutes. Mary made sure that Tempy's trunk was the first item to be unloaded, and she escorted it upstairs herself.

Fortunately, the staff at the estate was efficient, and they rushed to bring the bedraggled travelers hot water in their respective rooms. It didn't take long for Lucien to change into dry clothes, run a comb through his damp hair, and then set off to begin investigating the current state of the household.

Lucien trotted down the broad main staircase, his mood lighter than he'd anticipated. It was all due to the competency of the staff, he mentally acknowledged. Despite the lack of attention by the former Earls of Cavendish, the building and grounds had been well maintained. After questioning the butler, Barberry, Lucien discovered that there'd been little turnover among the household staff and the gardeners. Their meticulous attention to detail, even without the presence of an owner, should be commended. And would be. This estate, at least, could be removed from Lucien's list of potential problems.

The only thing that still appeared to require his immediate attention was the land dispute with his neighbor. After all, it was what had brought him here. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. He'd had a bad relationship with Squire Marcus Formsworth for as long as he could remember, and the upcoming court case between them was certain to be contentious.

Lucien moved toward the southern wing of the building, intent on his plan to explore the conservatory.

He pushed open the glass doors and breathed in the rich aroma of a well-tended garden. The groundskeepers had outdone themselves. The orangery was filled with citrus trees and was dotted throughout with fountains and grottoes. If Lucien recalled correctly, some of those trees were more than one hundred years old.

Lucien walked through the warm, humid space. It was enormous. Once could easily lose one's way inside it. The gnarled roots of the older citrus trees pushed up through the brick pavers of the walkway, and their heavy branches created lush archways that invited further exploration.

When he was a boy, his father had brought him to the estate for a brief visit. Back then, he hadn't been permitted to enter the conservatory for fear he'd damage the plants. If he'd realized what he'd been missing at the time, he'd have found a way to sneak in, no matter what the consequences. Even now, he could imagine discovering King Arthur's sword in one of the grottoes or fighting a dragon bearing down on him from the tops of the lime trees.

It would be a wonderful, magical place for entertaining when the weather turned bad.

Like now.

Inspiration smacked him between the eyes. It would be a shame not to enjoy the space during the short time they were here. He'd instruct the butler, Barberry, to have dinner served in the conservatory this evening. He imagined Tempy's delight at exploring the space and smiled in anticipation.

Lucien was lost in thought as he reached for the doorknob. When he glanced up to look through one of the panes of glass in the door, he was startled to see Tempy peering back at him. A relaxed smile softened her face. It was a vast improvement over the pinched expression she'd worn since they'd left the inn, and Lucien felt himself smiling back.

He opened the door.

"Why weren't you more excited to arrive here when you knew that this gloriously magical spot was waiting for you?" she asked with mock severity.

He shrugged. In the distance, he heard a loud bang, like the slam of a door. "I haven't spent much time here."

"That's a shame," Tempy said.

He heard a shout, and this time, Tempy seemed to hear something as well.

"Did someone just shout your name? I could have sworn I heard a man yell 'Hamlin.'"

Lucien's stomach sank. "This might turn ugly. Perhaps you should stay here," Lucien said, and turned toward the main entrance of the house.

Of course, Tempy ignored him. She seemed to do that frequently. The silk of her skirts rustled as she followed him through the maze of rooms as he headed toward the main foyer.

"Hamlin! I know you're here!" shouted the man.

Lucien rounded a corner and entered the foyer, coming face to face with the man who had forced him to travel here.

Formsworth's normally ruddy complexion was red with anger. He was just as muscular as Lucien remembered, and had gained only a few pounds in the past fifteen or so years since they'd last spoken.

"Formsworth. What a surprise. By your tone of voice, I take it you haven't arrived to wish me luck in my new role as Earl of Cavendish," Lucien said in a falsely friendly tone, unable to prevent himself from goading the man. How bright a shade of red could Formsworth's face produce without causing steam to spout from his ears?

From the corner of his vision, he could see Tempy frowning at the scene.

Some of Lucien's servants began to gather in the hallway behind Formsworth. The housemaids hung back, but Boothby and the butler, Barberry, were whispering with one another, and Lucien saw them separate and position themselves at Formsworth's flanks. Their protective attitudes came as a surprise to him, but he felt heartened as well. He wasn't used to people taking his side against the squire. Especially if the altercation turned physical.

It certainly hadn't happened that way the last time Formsworth and his thugs had come after him.

Boothby's face looked flushed as well, although it wasn't as red as Formsworth's. The young man remained focused and kept his gaze trained on Formsworth.

"Hamlin or Cavendish, it doesn't matter what name you use now. Don't think you can just come strolling back here and have us accept you with open arms. You should leave while you can. You're no more welcome now than you were as a boy."

"Do you mean to suggest that everyone plans to rise up against the new earl and drive him from their midst?" Lucien said, his tone oozing with sarcasm. "I think you're overestimating your pull around here. Do you believe I'm like Mary Shelly's monster in
Frankenstein
, to be reviled wherever I go? I can assure you, I'm not. Although I think they long ago came to recognize the
true
monster in their midst."

"Lucien, stop goading the man," Tempy murmured just loud enough for him to hear as she sidled away from the pair.

Steam didn't burst from Formsworth's ears, but it might as well have. Lucien's words served to ignite the man's barely contained fury, and he lurched forward, clenching his hands into fists. "You scoundrel! You blackened my name all through London." Formsworth crossed the foyer in two long strides and swung his arm in an arcing blow aimed directly at Lucien's chin.

Lucien stepped back, easily avoiding the blow, and he was relieved when Tempy took shelter by stepping through a doorway and ducking around the corner.

Formsworth continued trying to rain blows upon Lucien, but the majority of them missed. Lucien ducked from side to side, his fists raised in a boxing stance. For a few moments, the only sounds in the large foyer were of leather soles sliding against the marble floor and of faint exhalations of exertion that were sprinkled with occasional sharp intakes of breath by one of the onlookers. Most of Lucien's own carefully placed jabs hit their mark, and Formsworth's onslaught began to waver.

Formsworth took a step backwards and Lucien risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Tempy was still safely hidden around the corner. Only the top of her head and her eyes could be seen as she peeked around the corner to watch the fight.

Lucien turned his attention back to Formsworth and wiped the back of his hand across his upper lip to remove the faint sheen of perspiration that had formed. Formsworth's brow was beaded with sweat, and it dripped down the sides of his face like tears.