To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (13 page)

And if Mister Whitby learned what had transpired in
his park between Frederick and her, well ... She shook
her head in despair. She would do everything in her
power to make sure he did not find out.

She might be weak where Frederick was concerned,
but she was not stupid. It was time to secure her
future-her future with George Whitby.

"Just a few more paces, right up here. At the crest of
the bluff. Can you make it, Lady Eleanor?"

"Of course, Mister Whitby" Eleanor smiled, striding
confidently toward the crest of the rise. "I'm quite fond
of taking exercise on foot, and-" Her breath hitched in
her chest as her eyes swept across the vista, drinking in
the sight before her. The edge of the cliff disappeared
into the blue-green sea, sweeping out as far as the eye
could see. Frothy white foam capped the waves, rolling
toward the sandy crescent that stretched out to the right
of where they stood. "It's stunning," she breathed, turning toward Mister Whitby. "Simply stunning."

"Isn't it? Down below, beyond the orangerie, there's
a path that leads straight down to the shore itself Still,
I think the sea best appreciated from this particular
vista"

"I've never seen anything lovelier." Eleanor lifted her
face to the salty breeze, inhaling deeply. "Tell me, do
you ever bathe in the sea?"

"Every morning, when the weather permits. Are you
fond of swimming, Lady Eleanor?"

"I've not had much opportunity, I'm afraid, though it does seem something I would enjoy. If the water were
warm enough, that is."

"It was quite refreshing this morning. I find it invigorating. An excellent start to the day. I highly recommend it."

Whitby regarded her for a moment, his fists resting
on his hips, his ginger-colored hair blowing in the soft
breeze. His mouth curved into a smile. "Do you like to
dine alfresco?" he asked at last. "I could have the cook
pack a hamper with sandwiches and tea cakes, and we
could picnic here. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"What a lovely idea. I greatly enjoy meals alfresco,
something my brother Henry takes great pleasure in
teasing me about"

"I cannot see cause for teasing in that. Though I suppose that is what brothers do-tease"

Eleanor shrugged. "Do you have sisters, Mister
Whitby?"

"Indeed, two sisters. Fanny and Julianna. Silly
women, both of them. I cannot tell you how vastly relieved I was when they found husbands. I have not seen
either in several years now."

Eleanor was bewildered. "Not seen them in years?
Your own sisters? Come now, surely you exaggerate"

"No, not at all. We're all far too busy with our own
occupations. It's a wonder I see Henley as often as I
do, as I rather think he finds the sporting life dull."

"Perhaps" Eleanor shrugged, feeling suddenly uneasy
in the company of a man who obviously cared so little
for his siblings. "Do you often go to Town?"

He absently smoothed down the cuffs of his charcoalcolored jacket. "Now and again, for business purposes.
But I vastly prefer the country."

"I'm fond of the country myself," Eleanor said, happy for the common ground. Still, she enjoyed Town,
too-especially since her come-out.

A gust of wind lifted the hem of Eleanor's pale
yellow skirts, sending the fabric flapping against her
limbs. She reached up to steady her bonnet, its ribbons dancing in the breeze. "The wind is brisk today,
isn't it?"

Mister Whitby smiled. "Perhaps there's a storm
headed our way." He shielded his eyes with one hand as
he peered up at the clouds. "No, perhaps not. It looks
rather clear, does it not? A shame. We've such marvelous
storms in this district ""

Eleanor couldn't help but grimace. A storm, marvelous? "I must confess, I'm not overly fond of violent
weather," she said, unable to curb the shiver that raced
down her spine. Nothing terrified her more, if truth be
told.

"No? Perhaps you'll change your mind on that count
once you experience one here in Devonshire. Our storms
are truly magnificent. Anyway, tomorrow we shall have
our picnic. But for now, we should make our way back
to the house as I fear you've caught a chill." He held out
his arm, and Eleanor took it, settling her hand into the
crook of his elbow.

If he were so worried about her catching cold, he
could have offered her his coat, as Frederick had done,
Eleanor thought peevishly. Immediately, she scolded
herself for such a thought. Frederick might have insisted
she wear his coat, but still, he was no gentleman. She
mustn't let herself forget that. Frederick was altogether
unsuitable, unlike the man whose arm she now held.

"So, Mister Whitby," Eleanor murmured, smiling
sweetly at her escort, "you must tell me more about the
Duchess of Dandridge. Is her drawing room really done
entirely in gold leaf and marble?"

"Indeed it is, Lady Eleanor. The Duchess's tastes run
to the height of opulence, and not just in the drawing
room. Did you know the Duke and Duchess have a
hunting lodge not five miles from here, and ..

He continued rambling on, having somehow managed to turn the conversation back to his favorite topic.
With a sigh of resignation, Eleanor tuned out the sound
of his voice, reducing it to a steady hum in the background as they made their way back down the steep
slope toward the house. A nap, Eleanor thought with a
yawn. What I d really like is a nap.

"Lemme see that portrait again," the grizzled old barkeep grumbled, casting aside the soiled towel and pushing wire spectacles upon his bulbous nose.

Frederick pushed the miniature that his sister had
provided him across the bar with a scowl. Was this man
playing games with him?

"Hmmm, I reckon I can't be sure. These 'ere eyes are
not quite what they used to be, ye know? My specs is
old, and I can't afford me any fancy new ones"

His scowl deepening, Frederick retrieved several
heavy coins and placed them on the bar, sliding them
across the pocked surface toward the man. "Perhaps this
will help your failing memory."

The man palmed the coins with a grin. "Why, I believe I do recognize 'im, now that I'm lookin' more
closely. Ain't heard him called Eckford, though. Him's
a man of the cloth, he says. New to these here parts,
sayin' that he lost his living in a family squabble. The
missus travels with him, a peacock of a lady if I ever
seen one. Way too bright and fancy for a vicar's wife,
my own ladybird says."

"Where might I find him?" Frederick asked, his gaze meeting Henley's. His gut told him that the man told
the truth.

"I don't reckon I know where to find 'em. He's within
a day's drive, though, that's fer certain. Once a month he
comes here to town, with the lady in tow. Always stops
in here for a drink, he does, and takes a room for the
night now and again. I remember him special 'cause
he's so tight with his coins if you know what I mean.
Regular as clockwork, though. Once every moon, and
always on a Tuesday."

"And when would you say he was last in town?"
Henley asked.

The man scratched his head. "Hmmm, well, 'twas
likely a little more'n a fortnight ago, I'd say. Not likely
to return for another fortnight yet."

Frederick's heart accelerated. "And you're sure this is
our man?"

"I'm not sayin' I'm a hunnerd percent sure." He
paused and seemed to consider the question. Finally, he
nodded. "But I'm a bettin' man, and I'd put my money on
it. The Tuesday after next. Come here and ye'll find yer
man."

"Thank you for your time, Mister..

"Crosby. Edwin Crosby at yer service, gents" He
held out one beefy hand to Frederick.

Frederick took his hand into his gloved one and
shook it firmly. "Thank you, Mister Crosby." He
reached for several more coins and pressed them into
his hand. "If he is indeed my man, there will be more
where this came from. If, for some reason, he returns
before expected, you must send word to me at once"
Frederick produced one of his calling cards and placed
it on the bar. "I'll be in residence at Whitby Hall, a guest
of Mister George Whitby. Can I count on you, Mister
Crosby?"

The man nodded vigorously, pocketing the coins as
he did so. "Ye can count on Edwin Crosby. I'm a man
of my word, I am. Jes' ask anyone in these here parts"

"Aye, very good. Good day, Mister Crosby" With a
curt bow, Frederick turned, making his way back
through the dingy public house to his waiting mount.
Henley followed suit, and both men took up their reins
from the groom in the drive.

"Well, Stoneham, what do you think?" Henley asked
as he swung up into the saddle.

"I think we've found our man," Frederick ground out
through gritted teeth. He could barely stomach the
thought of waiting a fortnight to get his hands on the
bastard. Still, searching him out in the surrounding
countryside would be like looking for the proverbial
needle in the haystack. Crosby hadn't even provided
them with a name. But he'd seen the light of recognition
in the man's eyes the moment he'd seen the miniature.
They had their man; all they had to do was wait.

Henley's horse began to prance nervously in the road.
"I don't know about you, my friend, but I could use a
night or two in my warm, comfortable bed back at
Whitby Hall."

Frederick glanced up the darkening sky. It did look as if
a storm were gathering. "Do you think we can outride it?"

"Oh, I can certainly outride it," Henley answered with
a wink, swinging his horse's head toward the south.
"The question is, can you?"

Never one to turn down a challenge, Frederick tapped
his mount's flank with his crop, sending the beast off
in a gallop before Henley had the chance to react.

He would have Eckford in less than a fortnight. He
was sure of it. In the meantime, he could spare a few
days at Whitby Hall, perhaps even get in some pistol practice, not that he needed it. He'd never lost a duel
before; he certainly would not lose this one.

Besides, he had had just about enough of listening
to Henley prattle on endlessly about his wife-was she
eating well, was Whitby boring her, had she taken a
chill, perhaps? If Frederick didn't like Henley so much,
he'd have throttled the man by now. What in God's name
had happened to him? He'd gone and gotten marriedto little Selina Snowden, of all the silly chits-and now
it appeared that he'd gone soft in the head.

Frederick shook his head in disgust as he reined in
the horse, slowing its pace as Henley pulled abreast of
him.

"It'll be interesting to see how Lady Eleanor is getting on with Whitby, won't it?" Henley called out.

Interesting, indeed. Had the fair Eleanor managed to
capture the heart of the hapless Whitby? He suddenly
couldn't wait to get back to Whitby Hall to find out.

Eleanor shrugged into her dressing gown with a
heavy sigh. Oh, how she longed for home, for her beautiful rose-and-cream bedchamber back at Covington
Hall. For her familiar things, her familiar life. If only
she could turn back time, back to the day her papa had
told her about the marriage contract with Frederick
Stoneham.

She should have told him then and there-in no uncertain terms-that the match was unacceptable. That she
could not possibly marry him. Surely Lord Worthington
would have released her father from the agreementthe two men were friends, after all. Then Frederick would
have remained mercifully in Town, and she wouldn't be
here in Devonshire now, forced to do everything in her
power to capture the fancy of a man she did not fancy in return. Expelling her breath in a rush, she sank onto the
chintz-patterned tuffet before the dressing table.

The past two days had been tedious at best, though
she'd put every effort into enjoying herself Yesterday they
had toured the grounds of Whitby Hall on horseback and,
though Eleanor wasn't a particularly accomplished rider,
she found it pleasurable nonetheless. Today they had
picnicked on the bluff, just as Mister Whitby had promised. Though the view of the sea was incomparable and
the food delicious, she could no longer pretend-to herself, at least that she found Mister Whitby an agreeable
conversationalist. He somehow managed to turn every
polite exchange into a discussion of hunting-fox hunting, quail hunting, duck hunting. It would seem there was
far more English wildlife that could be pursued with a
gun than she had thought possible.

She reached for her brush and absently ran it through
her unbound hair, scowling at her reflection while she
did so. At least Selina had joined them on their picnic,
else it would have been near enough unbearable. What
am I doing here? she mused, irritation rising in her
breast. This was madness. She could not marry George
Whitby-could she? He bored her near enough to tears,
and it seemed they shared no common interests.

Then again, there were far worse flaws a gentleman
could possess than simply being boring. She knew it to
be true-wasn't Frederick's errant brother-in-law a perfect example? She'd heard many a tale of husbands who
drank too much, who gambled away their fortunes, who
seduced other women, who ruled their wives with an
iron fist.

George Whitby would do none of that. Instead, he'd
while away his days in the country, off on his favorite
hunter with a rifle flung over one shoulder. She would
likely not see him for days on end, whilst he spent his time with like-minded men like the Duke of Dandridge.
Would that be so terribly unpleasant? No, she told herself firmly. No, her lot in life could be worse, far worse
than that.

Her gaze moved past her own reflection in the glass,
focusing instead on the bed behind her. Yes, there was
that to consider. The marriage bed. She knew enough of
marital relations to know that she would be required to
share a bed with her husband, at least often enough to
produce an heir. Would it be all that unpleasant?