Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (2 page)

Victoria slid her gaze back towards the sea. The rest of the party sat just beneath them in the shadow of the barrow. Freddie, Lord Lassiter was painting the view, although there was not much paint on the paper, and similarly very little drink in his glass. Her brother Lord Henry Anglethorpe sat chatting quietly to Lord Stanton while their wives caught up on family gossip.

A breath caught in the back of her throat. With irritation, she pushed down the cold shiver that was working its way up her spine. She had spent nine sunshine filled weeks in Brambridge, and this was the first time she had felt uncomfortable.

“What are you thinking about
ma petite gateau de framboise
?”

Little raspberry cake? Victoria opened her eyes and turned her head. Bill still rested upon his elbow, but he had discarded the apple and his full attention was trained on her. Immediately it felt as if they were alone on the cliff top.

“I am not your little raspberry cake.” Victoria lowered her eyelashes. “Nor am I your little cream doughnut.” That had been yesterday’s offering. The day before he had called her an apple turnover, and before that, a cherry trifle, a pineapple dumpling, even, just the once, a peach pudding.

“But raspberry cakes are so delicious,” Bill said in soft tones. Victoria grasped the grass at her side as an altogether different shiver coursed through her. “Tart and refreshing when you bite into them,” he continued. Unable to stop herself, Victoria watched as he put a finger to his mouth and licked it.  “And yet so sweet and smooth afterwards.”

She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Bill grinned at her and dropped his hand to his side. Shaking her head, Victoria focused back on Freddie’s empty canvas. Fumbling by her side, she picked up a large hat and tied it smoothly on her head. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and tilted her face away from the sun.

London seemed so very far away, and yet she had only been in Brambridge for six weeks. Henry, her brother, and Agatha, his wife and Victoria’s erstwhile best friend had invited her to visit them at to celebrate their first year anniversary of their marriage. Victoria had arrived at Berale House, her brother’s seat in Devon, with the intention of only staying a few days, and yet every time she thought of leaving, it seemed foolish to relinquish the peace of Brambridge for the sour heat of the London Summer.

It had turned into one of those halcyon summers that no black storm could crush.

Down below, Freddie turned and looked up at her. His eyes flicked to the left and then focused blearily on her again. “I say, Lady Colchester.” He stopped and seemed to consult an internal voice before starting again. “I say, what do you think the odds are of Bill here managing to find some staff for Brambridge Manor before the winter is upon him?”

Victoria smiled and shot her own glance at Bill. He sat slowly up from his propped position and, with one lithe movement, got to his feet, blocking out the sun.

“I do not doubt that he will find staff; after all there is very little work hereabouts,” she called. Bill turned and gave her a quick smile, his features indistinct as the sun formed a halo of light around his dark cap of black hair.

Ten paces away, Freddie finally pushed his brush into a paint pot and drew a long stroke along the top of the painting. Standing back from the canvas, he gave a nod of obvious satisfaction and then half turned to face them. “But would you want to work for a former smith?” He pointed his brush at Bill. “I mean really, look at the man. Do his clothes speak to you of refinement? His manners of the haut ton? Lady Braithwaite didn’t know where to look the last time he graced her ball with his presence. Imagine being a servant to that.”

Bill took a step down the slope, and then another. From behind Victoria could see that his hands were bunched, his shoulders pushing against the cloth of his waistcoat. Freddie turned back to his canvas, seemingly unaware of the volcano advancing towards him.

“I am sure somebody will take the role.” Victoria brushed the crumbs off her skirt and stood. Reaching out a small hand, she touched Bill on the sleeve. “After all, all that is important is that your employer is fair and pays you on time, I’m sure.”

Bill turned and stared at her, his eyes flicking up and down as if inventorying her appearance. The familiar warmth in them was gone. Suddenly cold, Victoria dropped her hand to her side and knelt by the hamper of food on the ground.

Freddie shrugged his shoulders. “All I know is that Bill seems to draw attention to himself everywhere that he goes. It’s like going to a party with an ox.”

“The women don’t seem to mind,” Henry said quietly, looking up from twirling a lock of Agatha’s hair. “I think they quite enjoy Bill’s company.”

Victoria swallowed and picked up one of the empty bottles of wine. With short sharp movements, she packed it carefully into the hamper. Is that how they saw her? As one of the many women that had fallen under Bill’s spell? Her hand stilled—over the last week she had seen Bill every day, if not for an excursion then he had called for tea. Victoria picked up another bottle and shoved it with little care into the hamper. And if he didn’t call for tea then she had made an excuse to herself to call at Brambridge Manor or the church by the smithy in the village.

Victoria swallowed. She hadn’t stayed those extra weeks in Brambridge for the sun. She had stayed because she had been unwittingly lured into not leaving by a man of such vitality that it made the memory of her ex-husband a man of straw. Drawing her fingers sharply out of the hamper, she whimpered as a knife scraped along her knuckle. “Rule three,” she whispered to herself, stifling the pain. “Rule three.”

But the pain wasn’t in her knuckle, it was in her heart. Freddie had been trying to warn her.
Do his clothes speak to you of refinement, his manners of haut ton?
Bill would never fit into her world. He was the bastard son of a lord, a former smith for goodness sakes, whose estate had been given to him by his newfound brother, Lord Stanton. He would stand out like a zebra at a horse race, and she too by association. She shook her head. She could not stand out, she had only just gained equilibrium, the Armistead affair a great success, culminating in six weeks of freedom from…
it
.

Besides, she had vowed never to marry again.

When she looked up from the hamper, it was to see the others walking away towards the path. Bill remained, his arms folded, looking out towards the sea. Victoria took a deep breath and stood up.

“Mr. Standish, would you mind carrying the hamper?” she asked, hoping that the quiver in her voice had been bound by the normal steel that held her straight throughout the season.

Bill turned and strode back towards her. A light wind ruffled his raven hair; his brown eyes never wavered from hers. He put out a hand, but instead of reaching for the hamper, he captured her hand in his.

“I—“

She wasn’t given time to talk. Pulling her strongly towards him, he placed her hand on his shoulder and, grasping her at the waist, he looked deep into her eyes.

“Victoria.” It was the first time he had used her name. She could not break his stare. She did not want to break his stare.

With a short, intimate laugh, Bill took her mouth with his and feathered it with light kisses. Victoria froze, the sensation heating her chilled senses. Bill deepened the kiss. With a sigh, Victoria laid her other hand on his shoulder and clung on tight as if a ship tossed in a storm. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation.

“Such perfection,” Bill breathed in her ear, grazing her upturned chin with his mouth.

Victoria froze. Someone else had said that—Colchester, her late
hated
husband. She shivered in the warm air, gazing at her hands as they rested against Bill’s shoulders. What was she doing? It was, he was, all
wrong
. She stepped backwards, stumbling up the slope. Bill stared at her.       

“We must follow the others,” she stammered. “We can’t be left alone together.”

Bill frowned. “What does it matter? They’ve all noticed our interest in each other, hell fire, that kiss…”

Victoria straightened. “That kiss should never have happened.”

“Dammit Victoria, of course it should have happened, you’ve been waiting for it all summer.”

“I.” She put a hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat. “I’m going back to London.”

“Victoria?” Bill’s voice was questioning. But she had already stumbled past him and the hamper. The others were not far in the darkening distance. She would catch up with them. She had to for her own
equilibrium
.

CHAPTER 2

The heat from the furnace roared as Bill poked the amber flames. With practiced ease, he withdrew the glowing tip of the long piece of iron and, raising a hammer, let it fall with all his force on the luminescent metal.

Lord Granwich gritted his teeth as the clang reverberated throughout the forge. “I say, would you mind stopping just for one second, William?” He raised his voice. “I need to speak with you.”

“Can’t.” Bill dropped the hammer a second time. He watched and smiled grimly as Lord Granwich grimaced again. “Hot metal doesn’t wait for anyone.”

“But surely you have apprentices who can do this sort of thing for you?” Lord Granwich took out a large handkerchief and held it to his nose. Smoke whirled in the forge as a burly lad pumped a pair of large bellows, forcing the flames to burn brighter.

Bill dropped the hammer to the floor and pointed the long iron bar around the forge. Lord Granwich danced backwards as the burning tip slid in front of his pointed nose. “Apprentices? Do you see any apprentices?” He picked up his hammer and started pounding at the iron harder than before.

Bill did not want to disclose to Lord Granwich that most of his apprentices were playing at the roles of butler and footmen in Bill’s newly inherited estate, Brambridge Manor. They had jumped at the chance to leave the hot and sweaty forge for the slow pace of a country house.

That was precisely the reason why Bill was back in his forge. He was no country gentleman
despite
recently finding out that he was the half-brother of Lord Stanton. When Bill played croquet, he smashed the ball with such force it splintered. When he wrote his correspondence, the paper ended up torn and ripped where the quill had broken through.

At least cold hard metal didn’t expect him to bow to the ladies, and make small talk with the vicar.

“We need to speak about Pedro Moreno.” Lord Granwich tapped his booted foot against an old anvil.

With a sigh, Bill dropped his hammer for a second time and thrust the iron bar back into the furnace. He jerked his head at his one remaining apprentice. “Stop the bellows, Jim. Go and get a drink of water. That was good work.”

With a pleased smile, Jim lowered the arms of the bellows and wiped his hands on his leather apron. Bill folded his arms as Jim closed the door to the forge behind him. He leaned back against a worktop.

“Why didn’t you come and see me at the house?”

“I did, but you were not there.” Lord Granwich pursed his lips. “You were,” he searched for the words, “how can I put this delicately… ‘chasing a high end bit of skirt from over Seaton way’, according to your butler.”

“Oh.” Heat began at the base of Bill’s neck and rose slowly across his already hot face.

“Yes. Apparently, ‘
them highborn ladies love a bit of rough although the peacocks on their estates are always a bit of a bugger’.
”

Good God. He now knew why Lord Granwich was the arch spymaster, even ahead of Henry Anglethorpe. His hapless butler, George, was no match for the man. Bill chewed at his bottom lip. Perhaps he needed to hire a real butler. One who didn’t know so much about making gate posts and specialized in the more discreet style of service.

“Pedro Moreno,” Lord Granwich repeated impatiently. “You need to find Pedro Moreno.”

Bill folded his massive arms and stopped chewing at his bottom lip. “Can’t.”

“Whyever not? Let me remind you, he still has that list of spies that the Viper stole from the Government. Earl Harding may have killed that villain, but Pedro escaped with the information. We need to get it back before he sells it.”

“Why can’t Harding do it? He was the one tasked with getting back the information.”

“He has just got married, and secondly, you are the one who lost Pedro in the first place.”

Bill nodded. It was all too true. Despite Bill’s massive strength, Pedro, assistant to the dead Viper, and trained acrobat had slipped his chains and back-flipped out of Lord Lassiter’s house before Bill could recover. But still...

“I’m not like Anglethorpe or Harding. I don’t know the slightest about tracking down a villain. I’m a smith. Never mind my activities sailing on the
Rocket
for you. That’s more like smuggling than spying.”

“What about your brother, Lord Stanton? He was a renowned war scout. Surely something must have rubbed off?”

Bill glared at Lord Granwich. He really was grinding it in. “I only found out that he was my brother recently,” he said quietly. “Growing up in an orphanage tends to make you believe that is what you are… an orphan. As it is, I’m only his bastard brother.”

“A bastard brother with a country estate to his name and a long tenure as part of my group.” Lord Granwich’s usually stone like face grew a heated red. “Let me remind you, Bill. We do not invite any old person to be part of our ring. Each person has been carefully selected for their talents. At least, most have. I am beginning to wonder about Lord Lassiter.”

Bill snorted. Freddie, Lord Lassiter had been there when Pedro escaped. Bill couldn’t help but feel that he had played up how much his leg hurt him when they had had to report Pedro’s loss to the others. Bill had seen the empty whisky bottles in Freddie’s room and smelled it on his breath. But it was no use trying to blame Freddie. Bill had been the one in the room with Pedro. He had been brought in with specific instructions to guard the slippery young man. And he had failed.