Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

A year ago, he would have rejected everything in the chest with a disdainful sniff. But after months garbed in the cast-off gear from the sea trunks of deceased sailors, he’d become much less finicky.

And much more appreciative, he thought, sending his absent sister a mental thanks. Without Joanna’s intervention, he’d have been forced to put back on the soiled, bloodstained tatters he’d worn off the ship, he thought, grimacing with distaste.

It was only then that he noticed the small pouch at the bottom of the chest. Snatching it up, he opened the loop to find winking back at him a small cache of coins: pence, shillings, pounds, even a few golden guineas.

Swallowing hard at such unexpected largesse, he vowed to send his sister a written note of thanks as soon as he could obtain pen and paper. Of course, he’d arrived here penniless, possessing not even the few coins the servants would expect as the vails normally given by a guest. The service that could be expected by one who neglected to bestow such small tokens of appreciation would be dismal—and the respect he was accorded even less.

Filled with a renewed appreciation for his sister, he slipped into the small clothes, breeches and shirt, then rang for Luke. Though he was reasonably sure he could put on the coat without assistance—one benefit of wearing one that did not fit like a second skin—he’d have to wait until after his shave to don it, and tying the cravat was problematic. He feared his left arm would still be too tender to lift high enough to manage it.

Luke arrived a moment later. Though Greville had been initially dubious about the servant’s claim of expertise, the footman showed himself to be quite skilled with both razor and scissors and possessed a deft hand with the cravat.

When he complimented the man, Luke told him he hoped to be a valet some day, and cast him a lingering glance, as if implying he thought Greville might be able to assist him in that desire.

Might he? Greville wondered. His immediate goals not extending beyond mastering stairs and having the stamina to walk further than three circuits about the room, he wasn’t sure yet what the future would hold for himself, much less for the ambitious Luke.

The first step towards that discovery couldn’t be taken until after he presented himself to the Coastal Brigade office. Though he intended to make an appearance downstairs in the parlour today, he knew he wasn’t recovered enough to tolerate a several-mile jolting drive.

Luke offered him a mirror so he might inspect his new haircut in the glass. His reflection when he first glanced into a mirror before his bath had shocked him so much he marvelled that Lord Bronning had not taken one look at him and immediately had the coachman heave him back into the coach and spring the horses, dispensing with rubbish as quickly as the cook’s assistant tossing the crew’s refuse overboard.

Looking at himself now, he could not help being pleased at the improvement. Oh, he was still but a shadow of his former handsome self, he thought wryly. But with the beard gone, his auburn hair washed and trimmed, and wearing the clothing Joanna had sent, loose on his emaciated tall frame but quite respectable, he looked much more the sort of gentleman who might be invited as the guest of a rural baron.

Another thought struck him then, prompting another rueful smile. A year ago, he would never have considered accepting an invitation to a Devonshire estate that, from his hazy recollection, was rather remote, unless said estate came fully stocked with game for shooting, spirits for drinking and willing wenches for amusement.

Even his former meticulous self couldn’t have faulted the elegant appointments of this room, though, he acknowledged, giving the vast chamber an admiring glance. Bronning might be merely a baron, but he was clearly a rich one.

How would he find the rest of the estate? Probably a good deal better managed than the one that had been given into his charge, he reflected with another painful flash of honesty.

Greville’s lofty opinion of his own worth had taken as much of a beating during his time at sea as that pirate ship the Illustrious had boarded. He’d had months marooned within the small confines of a naval vessel with nothing to do but reflect, as the grit he holystoned over the deck cut into his knees or he took his turn hoisting sail or cranking the bilge pumps.

Those eight months had carved a divide as wide and deep as the cutlass gash in his chest between Greville Anders, pampered only son of minor gentry and distant cousin of a great peer, and the man he was now.

Along with his status as ‘gentleman’, the sea wind and grinding labour had worn away his former opinions, attitudes and values to such an extent that the face now gazing back at him belonged to a wholly different individual. One who’d gone from fury at his fate, to resignation, to a growing sense of pride as, with hard work and dogged persistence, he proved his worth to a sceptical crew … and to himself.

Not that he was sure yet what he’d do next, once Lord Englemere persuaded the Admiralty to release him from duty as a landsman with the Royal Navy. He did know, however, having lived among men who pledged their efforts and their very lives to a cause greater than themselves, that he could never stomach being idle again. He could not drift from estate to estate of his wealthy university friends, as he had after leaving Cambridge, his company valued as an amusing fribble who enlivened every party with his wit, his expertise at the gaming table and his ability to charm the ladies.

In addition to consulting Englemere about a new position, he had assurances from Captain Harrington that his former commanding officer would enquire about a place for him with his contacts in the Admiralty. On this fever-free, sunny English morning, Greville felt confident he’d find some honourable employment suitable for a gentleman’s son.

Exactly what was a puzzle he didn’t need to solve this moment, he thought with an echo of the insouciance with which he used to dismiss all problems. His only task now was to discern his true level of recovery by exiting this chamber and investigating his temporary residence.

‘What is the routine of the household?’ he asked the still-hovering Luke. ‘I should like to see Lord Bronning and apologise for my rudeness in remaining two whole days in my chamber.’

‘Don’t expect that were a problem. I imagine his lordship was happy to have you stay put. And heal, I mean,’ he added, the tips of his ears reddening.

Greville bit back a grin. Servants in a grand house being as fiercely proud of their master’s home and status as the owner himself, the reception of a man who looked as much like gallows-bait as he had upon arrival had no doubt been greeted with as much disapproving speculation belowstairs as above. He’d wager his host—and hostess—were thankful he’d remained abed, sparing them the dilemma of what to do with him.

‘It’s past time for breakfast, I see,’ he said with a nod towards the mantel clock. ‘Do Lord Bronning and his family take nuncheon?’

‘Lord B.’s off inspecting the estate, but Miss Neville and Miss Althea sometimes do. They’ll be in breakfast room shortly if they are. I can have Cook send in something, whether the ladies be eating or not, if you’re wishful.’

‘Yes, I should like that. Please tell Cook how much I enjoyed the tray you brought earlier.’

The footman grinned. ‘No need to say nothing. She saw the empty plate and was happy to see you’re such a good trencherman! What with all the illness in the house, the master’s sister and then the missus herself passing on last spring and summer, Lord B.’s been pecking at his food and Miss Neville no better. Be a right pleasure to cook for someone with a healthy man’s appetite, she said. Breakfast room’s on the main floor, to the left from the stairs.’

Greville thanked the footman, who bowed himself out with a promise to make sure there would be something waiting to tempt his appetite. Taking one last look in the glass to adjust the knot Luke had fashioned in his cravat, Greville carefully straightened and set forth for the breakfast room.

With his whole concentration the evening of his arrival focused on simply making it up the stairs to a bedchamber, the size and furnishing of Lord Bronning’s house had made little impression. He soon discovered that the rest of the house was as luxurious and well appointed as his bedchamber.

Though related to the famous Stanhopes, the Anders family was not wealthy, Papa being merely a younger son of distinguished lineage. Like many younger sons, his father had been bundled off to the church, which he now served by ministering to the clerks and soldiers of the East India Company. But educated at Cambridge and having many friends among the wealthier of his class, Greville had visited enough elegant townhouses and grand country estates to recognise that Bronning’s family was not only wealthy, but of ancient lineage.

Although his bedchamber had been decorated in cream-toned plasterwork with the classical pediments and pilasters of the Adams style, the hallway down which he was now walking boasted beautiful carving, which to his critical eye appeared to be of Renaissance origin. The floor beneath his feet was solid oak planking, polished to a high gleam. An array of portraits of men and ladies in Renaissance and Cavalier dress hung at intervals above the carved wainscoting.

He reached the landing, which overlooked a large stonewalled entry, its walls hung with tapestries and its huge front door flanked by suits of armour, indicating that the space must have originally been a medieval tower. After carefully descending a grand stairway of the same elegantly carved Renaissance oak—and leased to arrive at the bottom after a minimum of teeth-gritting discomfort—he was drawn to light emanating from under an archway beneath the stairs.

Walking through to what must be a later addition, he discovered a set of French doors opening on to a broad stone terrace that descended several steps to a second terrace of closely clipped lawn. Two brick wings in the Georgian style flanked the terraces to the left and right, their graceful tapered ends punctuated by a trio of Palladian windows. Beyond the grass terrace, steps descended to a rolling meadow leading in the distance to thick woods that climbed steeply uphill.

He had to laugh and grimaced at the pull to his wound. After viewing the hall and grounds, he was even more surprised Lord Bronning hadn’t had him summarily carted back to his carriage upon arrival. No wonder Miss Neville had frowned at him!

Would she continue to frown today? he wondered. Though his entire view of the world and what made a man worthy had altered, Miss Neville doubtless shared the beliefs and values embraced by the majority of their class. According to these, any approval of the service he had rendered his country while aboard the Illustrious would be negated by the menial position he had occupied while serving there.

The old Greville had never met a lady he couldn’t charm. Now that he looked more like that old self, despite her inclination to dismiss such a low person, would Miss Neville prove immune to his appeal? Though his plans most certainly did not include courting the daughter of a wealthy baron while he marked time here waiting for his future to begin, it might be amusing to find out.

At that conclusion, he returned his attention to calculating which doorway down the left of the impressively long hallway might lead him into the breakfast room. Wishing he’d asked Luke for more specific directions, he set off.

His satisfaction at finding the correct door turned to pleasure when, halting on the threshold, he discovered the space within already occupied by two young females. The glorious Miss Neville, looking like sunshine itself in a pale yellow morning gown that echoed her golden hair, sat across from a younger, plainly dressed female, who must be the Miss Althea the footman had mentioned.

He made them a bow, further cheered by how much easier that gesture was today than it had been a few days previous. ‘Good day, ladies. May I join you?’

Chapter Three

Relieved to have company to break the tense silence that had fallen between her and her cousin Althea, Amanda was about to greet her father when she realised the deep masculine voice was not Papa’s. As she looked up sharply, the vision that met her startled eyes made her catch her breath and sent her senses leaping like a colt loosed in a spring meadow.

A man stood in the doorway, smiling faintly. Despite his casual stance, the tall, lean body radiated an aura of such intense masculinity that everything female within her came instantly to the alert. A little thrill of anticipation zinged through her as she focused her gaze on the rugged, vaguely familiar face: handsome, if a bit lean and tanned, with vivid green eyes that seemed to gaze into one’s soul and a beguiling smile playing about the lips.

That enticing smile coaxed forth an answering one before the truth of his identity struck her with force of a giant boulder, smashing her response at birth. The man wearing gentleman’s garb and standing at ease on the threshold could only be their long-absent guest, Mr Anders.

Before she could order her disjointed thoughts to summon a suitable greeting, Althea bobbed up like a fishing cork after a pull on the line. ‘Mr Anders, is it not!’ she cried. ‘How excellent to meet you at last! I’m so sorry I missed your arrival. You were ill, I’d heard, but are obviously better. Please, won’t you help yourself at the sideboard and come sit by me? I cannot wait to converse with you.’

‘How kind of you to solicit my company, Miss …?’ He paused, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Holton—Althea Holton. No one of importance, as Amanda would tell you,’ Althea said with a toss of her head in Amanda’s direction. ‘Lord Bronning is my uncle.’

‘His lordship is doubly fortunate, then, to have both a handsome daughter and a lovely niece.’

‘Prettily spoken, Mr Anders,’ Amanda responded, finally collecting her wits. ‘I, too, am glad to see you have recovered enough to join us.’

‘Are you indeed, Miss Neville?’ he replied, his dry tone and raised eyebrow telling her he doubted those polite words. ‘I am heartily glad to be able to join you. I hope I shall be less trouble for the remainder of my sojourn here than I’ve been the last two days—however long that sojourn may be.’

‘I do hope it will be extended!’ Althea interjected. ‘You are to report to the Coastal Brigade office, Uncle James said? What shall you do with them?’

‘On that head, Miss Holton, I have no more information than you. I shall not discover the extent of my duties until I report in, which I intend to do as soon as I can manage the journey.’

‘If you feel equal to the trip today, I can summon you a coach,’ Amanda offered.

He showed her that quirk of eyebrow again, as if he thought her remark implied an eagerness to be rid of him. Though she hadn’t intended to convey that impression—at least consciously—she supposed it was true.

A sudden shame heated her cheeks. She’d thought Anders too ill or cast-away to notice much upon his arrival—but had her less-than-enthusiastic reaction to his visit been so apparent? It must have, for he was treating her with an ironic courtesy that said he didn’t believe a single one of her politenesses.

Chagrin deepened the burn. Though plain, Mr Anders’s garments were undeniably those of a gentleman, and he wore them with the ease of long practice. His birth and connections were probably exactly as claimed, despite the low nature of his recent activities. Though she was still beset by problems and grieving, that didn’t excuse her being uncivil or unwelcoming to one of Papa’s guests—no matter how ill conceived she think the invitation.

‘A kind offer, Miss Neville, but I don’t believe I shall avail myself of it today,’ he replied while incoherent words of apology churned around in her head. ‘My emergence from the sickroom is so recent, I think it would be wiser to remain at Ashton Grove and try my luck exploring the house and grounds. From the few glimpses I had driving to the manor, both are magnificent.’

‘Oh, they are indeed,’ Althea chimed in. ‘Would you like to tour the estate? I’d be happy to drive you—if you are up to it. I was told you’d been wounded, but have no idea of the severity. What happened? Oh, I mean if it is not too rude to enquire. It’s just, I’m so fascinated by everything about the Navy!’

‘Why don’t we let Mr Anders eat before we press him to recount his history?’ Amanda suggested, embarrassed by Althea’s overly inquisitive behaviour.

Sparing Amanda only a quick dagger glance, Althea refocused her attention on Anders. ‘Do try the ham and cheese, it’s quite good,’ she coaxed. ‘Shall I assist you? Allow me to carry your plate.’

Goodness, Althea was acting as if their guest were an invalid or a child still in the nursery. Amanda’s experience with gentleman was limited mostly to her brother, but she knew George would hate to be coddled in such a manner. ‘Mr Anders probably prefers to fix his own plate, Althea,’ she said in as light a tone as possible.

It didn’t answer; the girl flashed her a resentful look. ‘I know he’s capable. I just want to help, if he wishes it.’

‘That’s most kind of you, Miss Holton, but I think I can manage,’ Anders replied, tactfully forestalling any further exchange. ‘I admit to being eager to try more of your cook’s skill. If the exceptional breakfast sent up this morning is any indication, you keep a fine table, Miss Neville. That is, I understand you run the household yourself? And do so with admirable skill for a lady so young.’

‘Yes, Amanda’s a paragon of organisation, as anyone at Ashton Grove will tell you. An exemplary manager and a beauty! No doubt she’ll have suitors lined up in the street when she makes her come-out in London this spring.’ Though the words themselves were matter of fact, Althea’s tone implied her disdain at such a goal.

Mr Anders either did not sense that, or chose to ignore it, merely replying, ‘So you will go to London, then?’

‘Yes, I hope to,’ Amanda replied. At least one of the ladies present could be politely brief, she thought with annoyance.

‘Indeed, Amanda can’t wait to escape the country!’ Althea exclaimed. ‘Whereas I think Ashton Grove is wonderful, and so rich in history. The original part of the house dates from the late fourteenth century. I’d be delighted to show you around—when you are sufficiently rested, Mr Anders,’ she added, directing another pointed look at Amanda.

‘After I sample some of that ham and cheese, I may take you up on that kind offer, Miss Holton,’ Anders said.

Althea insisted on walking to the sideboard with him, pointing out other dishes and offering to hold his plate or fetch him coffee. Amanda had to admit, Anders bore those ministrations with patience, tinged, if the wink he sent her over the girl’s head was any indication, with good humour.

Returning to the table, he seated himself beside Althea as requested. Eating slowly, occasionally closing his eyes as if truly savouring the food, he continued to focus a flattering amount of attention on the girl.

Amanda couldn’t fault his manners, and his conversation was skilful, too. With a few well-chosen phrases, he led Althea to describe Ashton Grove, the pleasant walks and rides to be had in the area, the fishing and hunting available, the route one took to reach the Devon coast, the beautiful red cliffs at Salcombe by the Coastal Brigade station at Salters Bay.

Probably he was Stanhope’s cousin after all. She’d love to enquire about that relationship—when she could do so with more polite discretion than Althea was displaying.

Not required to add a syllable to the discussion, Amanda settled back to simply observing Anders. Which, she had to admit, was certainly no hardship.

The improvement in his looks from the bearded, grimy man she’d met in the entry two days ago was little short of amazing. Though the limp was gone, he walked a bit stiffly, testament to the fact that he was still not fully recovered. In spite of that impediment, there was a sinuous, almost feline quality to his movements.

Something about his rangy grace recalled to her mind the jungle cats she’d seen as a girl in the Royal Menagerie—sleek and feral. Despite the subtle signs of injury, Mr Anders still radiated a sense of self-confidence and power.

This was not a man to tangle with, that prowling stance said, but one who would protect what was his and hold his own in a fight. Free to roam about as the menagerie beasts were not, she suspected Mr Anders might prove even more dangerous.

From the deliberate way he was holding the fork in his left hand and the rigid angle of his arm, she surmised that his wound must be on that side. Speculating about the size and location of the injury hidden beneath the coat led her to imagining how his chest might look, stripped of clothing.

That image sparked such a strong, unsettling flash of sensation in her belly that she immediately shut down the thought. Taking a steadying breath, she turned her gaze instead to a covert study of his profile.

He possessed a straight, classical nose and the lips of a Greek sculpture. A determined chin, against which he was tapping one tanned finger, bronzed, no doubt, from performing all manner of tasks in heat and sun, as the calloused palm would also attest. At his brow and temples, a luxuriant curl of auburn hair, now cut and fashionably styled, inspired in her the oddest desire to run her fingers through it.

At the thought of him running one of his tanned hands through her unbound hair, she felt a little shiver. Despite the ravages worked upon him by his service at sea and his wounds, Mr Anders was still a strikingly well-made gentleman.

Unfortunately.

Though she had scarcely more acquaintance with personable gentlemen than her cousin, she was older and, she hoped, less impressionable than Althea, yet when Mr Anders had appeared on the threshold a few moments ago, he’d nearly stolen her breath. If Amanda didn’t mistake the look on her cousin’s face, now gazing up at their guest raptly, Althea had developed an instantaneous tendre for the man she’d already been predisposed to admire for his military connections.

How was Amanda going to prevent her impetuous cousin from hanging on Mr Anders’s sleeve, chattering in his ear and trying to accompany him on every walk, stroll or ride he took on Ashton Grove land and elsewhere?

‘Have I dripped egg on my coat, Miss Neville?’

Startled out of her reverie, Amanda realised Mr Anders’s deep-green eyes were now focused on her, his amused expression announcing he’d caught her staring at him. Quickly she averted her gaze, while, to her added discomfort, she felt a blush mounting her cheeks.

‘I don’t think so,’ Althea replied before she could respond. ‘If you had, she would have told you so directly. Amanda is a stickler for propriety and proper behaviour.’

‘Proper’ meaning dull, Althea’s tone said. Amanda suppressed a sigh and hoped her expression didn’t betray her irritation. Althea’s obvious attempt to disparage her in front of the object of her fascination might be humorous if it were not so annoying—and disquieting proof of just how mesmerised the girl already was.

‘For a young lady about to make her début, being a stickler for propriety is an unfortunate necessity, or so I’ve been told,’ came Mr Anders’s surprising reply. ‘It’s quite unfair that gentleman are allowed great freedom of behaviour, while ladies, especially unmarried ones, are so restricted.’

Amanda risked a quick, covert glance at his face, which seemed serious rather than mocking. It was only polite of him to have so deftly deflected Althea’s criticism, but could it be possible he really understood the truth of his remark?

Or was he just vastly experienced at leading young ladies astray? As of yet, she knew absolutely nothing about his character. Compellingly attractive as he was injured, she imagined his charm would be quite devastating when he was fully recovered. A rogue-in-sheep’s clothing, who cloaked illicit designs in properly conventional speeches, would be as dangerous to Althea’s heart and reputation as those jungle cats loosed among Ashton Grove cattle.