A compromising situation…

for an innocent lady!

After fending off ruffians with her parasol and hauling a battered man into her carriage, Jane Newnham finds herself unwittingly compromised with enigmatic Ivo Merton, Earl of Kendall! Jane always intended to become an artist, not a wife, and now she has no choice but to become betrothed. They strike a bargain that means she can continue to paint, but Ivo has awakened another passion in her—to uncover his secrets…

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history and travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @louiseregency and janeaustenslondon.com.

Also by Louise Allen

Marrying His Cinderella Countess

The Earl’s Practical Marriage

A Lady in Need of an Heir

Convenient Christmas Brides

Contracted as His Countess

Lords of Disgrace miniseries

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

His Christmas Countess

The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux

The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone

Liberated Ladies miniseries

Least Likely to Marry a Duke

The Earl’s Marriage Bargain

And look out for the next book

coming soon!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Earl’s Marriage Bargain

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90147-9

THE EARL’S MARRIAGE BARGAIN

© 2020 Melanie Hilton

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
1st September, 1814

If she was in a novel written by her friend Melissa, then this post chaise would be rattling across the cobbles on its way to the Borders for a Scottish wedding and the seat next to her would be occupied by a dashing, dark and decidedly dangerous gentleman.

As this was real life, Jane was on the way to Batheaston to spend at least six months in disgrace with Cousin Violet. Beside her was Constance Billing, her mother’s maid. It had become clear ten minutes after their journey had begun that the only thing constant about Constance was her ability to sulk relentlessly and to disapprove of everything.

On the other hand, at least she was not being sent home to Dorset. Cousin Violet was entertainingly eccentric and—so she fervently hoped—Billing would be returning the morning after their arrival.

Jane consulted the road book. ‘We do not change horses at Kensington as it is not even two miles from London. Hounslow is the first halt, I believe.’

‘In that case, Miss Jane, why have we stopped?’

‘Because, as you can observe through the front glass, the traffic has become entangled for some reason.’ Jane half rose from her seat to look over the back of the pair of horses. ‘Ah, I see there has been an accident.’

The church was just ahead of them on the bustling main road through the village of Kensington and two large wagons were in front of it, apparently with their wheels locked. The drivers were both standing up, waving their whips and shouting at each other, which was not helping in the slightest. Fortunately, they were out of earshot. Passers-by and other drivers had stopped to offer advice, gawk or generally get in the way.

Jane dropped the window beside her and leaned out. Distantly behind them there was the sound of a horn. ‘That is either a stagecoach or the Mail is coming through.’

She settled back against the squabs and prepared to be entertained. Travellers complained about post chaises and their swaying motion, but they did have the benefit of a wide front window through which to survey the world. Naturally, Billing did not approve of all that glazing and kept her eyes averted from it. It was neither discreet nor private, in her opinion, and young ladies should not be looking around, risking attracting the roving eye of some rake or sauntering gentleman.

‘Do put up the glass, Miss Jane,’ Billing scolded. ‘There is a common alehouse just the other side of the pavement from us.’

She did have a point, Jane conceded. The Civet Cat opposite looked decidedly seedy and not at all like the well-kept, welcoming inns of the villages around her home.

As she mentally swept the frontage, cleaned the windows and added a pot or two of geraniums, the door of the alehouse burst open and three men rolled out, scattering pedestrians. They were followed by two others carrying clubs.

Billing gave a screech. ‘We’ll be murdered!’

‘No, we will not, but that man will be if someone doesn’t help him.’

The fight had resolved into one against four as the largest of the club-bearers dragged a tall, dark-haired man to his feet and held on to him as the others closed in and began to rain blows against head and body.

‘Why doesn’t somebody stop it? That is not a fight, that is a deliberate assault. They should call a constable.’

The tall man wrenched free, unleashed a punch and knocked down one of his attackers, sending him crashing into two of the others.

‘Oh, well done, sir! Hit him again, the bully!’

Jane ignored Billing tugging at her arm and shushing her. She opened the window in the door of the carriage, gripped the edge and held her breath because, despite that gallant punch, the man was held fast now by the two he had fallen against. He was shaking his head as though to clear it after a vicious blow and was clearly now no match for the fourth assailant who was advancing, grinning in obvious anticipation.

To Jane’s surprise the attacker dug in the pocket of the frieze coat he was wearing, produced a folded paper and stuffed it into the coat front of the man before him. ‘With compliments,’ he said, then took a firm grip on his cudgel again.

The first swing of the club jolted the tall man out of his captors’ grip, across the pavement and into the side of the chaise. Billing gave another shriek as it rocked on its springs.

Jane threw open the door, reached out with both hands, grabbed the man’s arm and the collar of his coat and tugged. ‘Get in!’

Whether he heard her, or the momentum of his fall carried him in, she had no idea and she was far too worried about the gap-toothed snarl on the face of the cudgel-wielder to care. The man collapsed at her feet, the door swung in and then, as the chaise righted itself, came back on its hinges and hit the attacker in the face.

Jane took a grip on her parasol with one hand and dug frantically in her reticule with the other for Mama’s pocket pistol which was hopelessly tangled with her handkerchief. She was braced for the inevitable, when, with a blast on the horn, the Mail was on them. It swept past, forcing its way through the onlookers around the wagons. Their postilion seized his chance, whipped up his horses and the chaise, door still open, lurched into the wake of the stage and followed it through. As they passed the church the chaise tilted, the door slammed closed and they had left the Civet Cat and its ruffians behind.

Jane considered being sick, swallowed hard and let go of her weapons.

‘Miss Jane, tell the postilion to stop, this horrid creature is bleeding all over our skirts.’ Billing made as though to drop her own window to lean out.

‘Stop that,’ Jane said sharply. ‘Do you want those bully boys to catch up to us? Help me turn him over. Oh, do not be so foolish, Billing—have you never seen blood before? Put your feet on the seat then; at least it will give him more room on the floor.’

Billing huddled up in the far corner, managing in the process to kick the man who was prone at their feet. There was a groan. At least he was still alive.

Jane bent down and touched his shoulder and found good-quality broadcloth under her hand. ‘Can you turn over, sir?’

He grunted, began to lever himself up on his elbows in the restricted space and swore under his breath as the chaise hit a rut. ‘No.’

‘Very well, stay there. We will come to a turnpike gate soon, surely.’

It must have been about two miles before the chaise slowed, then stopped. ‘Help me, Billing. Billing.’

Somehow they hauled the man up on to the seat between them and it became clear that he was suffering from a knife wound in the shoulder, at the very least. There was blood, rather more than Jane felt comfortable with, and his left arm hung limp.

Jane stuffed her handkerchief and her fichu under his coat and pressed on the wounded area, ignoring the gasp of pain and the subsequent bad language. ‘Hold that.’ After a moment he obeyed, although his eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side.

She could sympathise with the gasp and she doubted if he was conscious enough of his surroundings to realise that he was swearing at two women. More of an immediate problem was Billing, who had recoiled further into the corner and was hectoring Jane on danger, impropriety, unladylike behaviour… ‘And what your sainted mother will say, I shudder to imagine. No respectable lady would consider for a moment—’

Jane stopped listening.

The postilion, having sorted out the toll, appeared to realise for the first time that he had an extra passenger. He handed the reins to the gatekeeper and came around to Jane’s window. ‘Here, what’s going on, miss? This vehicle was hired for two people.’

‘I know it was. I want you to stop at the next decent inn that serves stagecoaches and, I promise, you will be back to two passengers.’

He gave her a decidedly sceptical look. ‘It’ll be extra to pay at the end if there’s blood on the upholstery.’ But he remounted and sent the pair off at a canter and, as Billing finally ran out of breath, drew up at the Bell and Anchor.

‘Billing, please go inside and fetch a bowl of water,’ Jane said.

‘I’ll go in, that is for sure, but to try and get the blood off my skirts, Miss Jane! And I will send out some men to haul that vagabond out of our chaise,’ she added, scrambling down and marching into the inn. ‘I should be calling the constable, that’s what your mother would say…’ floated back to the chaise.

‘Quickly, unstrap her luggage,’ Jane told the postilion. ‘That wicker hamper and the small brown valise there.’ The stranger would have to look after himself for the moment because she needed to find her purse.

Just as Jane unrolled two banknotes Billing came marching out again without, of course, any water, but flanked by two anxious-looking waiters.

‘What’s about, Miss Jane? Those are my bags there.’

‘Billing, you are going home to Dorset. There is your luggage, here is more than enough money for the stage—you can pay for decent rooms and food on your way and a girl to accompany you. This seems a most respectable inn so I am sure they will advise you and let you hire one of the maids for the journey.’ She thrust the notes into the spluttering woman’s hands and closed the door. ‘Drive on!’

The postilion obeyed, ignoring Billing’s indignant cries as they rattled off down the road again. Jane flopped back against the seat. All things considered, a silent, if battered, man was a far more pleasant travelling companion than Billing with her sour face and nagging voice. Jane shifted on the seat to look at him more closely. He was also considerably better to look at than Billing although, even accounting for bruises, dirt and blood, he was no Adonis. On the other hand, she was now responsible for him, she had no experience of nursing wounded men and goodness knew what he would prove to be like when he regained consciousness. The quality of the coat did promise a certain gentility, at least, although, gravedigger or gentry, she would still have rescued anyone from a beating if she could.

Melissa would be deeply envious. This was the kind of adventure she was always writing about and which, Jane was certain, she yearned to experience for herself. She would just have to make do with letters, which were bound to be less enthralling than Melissa would have hoped. On the other hand, Jane could draw as vividly as her friend could write, which should make up for a lack of dramatic description. With a quick check to make certain the wounded man was still unconscious and the bleeding was under control, Jane took her sketch pad and a pencil from the door pocket and flipped back the cover.

Where the devil am I?

Ivo thought about opening his eyes, then decided against it. Everything hurt, but no one was thumping him at the moment, which was a decided improvement, and there was no point in jeopardising that to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, he appeared to be in a moving vehicle and the only thing that he could smell was leather and a decidedly piquant floral perfume.

From the motion of the vehicle he deduced that he was in a post chaise and, from the perfume, that he had been rescued by a lady. That was embarrassing, but preferable to remaining with the brutes that Daphne had set on him. The reality of the transformation in the woman who had once told him that she adored him and would wait for him was not something that he had the strength to consider now. What he would feel when he allowed himself to think of it was beside the point, he told himself. All that really mattered was that he could not honour his promise to his friend, her brother, as he lay dying. That failure was a damned sight more painful than whatever was wrong with his left shoulder.

Distantly he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses, the postilion’s occasional shouted order to them as the chaise creaked and the wheels rumbled. Under those sounds there was a strange scratch-scritch noise, almost a whisper, right on the edge of his consciousness…. It was rather soothing.

The chaise was slowing, turning, stopping. There was noise from outside. Ivo dragged open his lids and found himself staring into a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes.

‘Oh, good, you are awake. I was wondering how we were ever going to get you out of the carriage if you were not. You are rather large,’ the owner of the eyes added critically. ‘And bloody. And dirty.’

He blinked and she moved back, which at least meant he could get her into focus through the headache. Mousy brown hair, freckles, a heart-shaped face. Not pretty, certainly not compared to Daphne’s exquisite blonde delicacy, but the overall effect was vaguely feline in an amiable sort of way. A gentle waft of warm female and floral scent tickled his nose.

‘Do you think you can get out and into the inn? I have asked one of the grooms to help.’ She smiled at him, her head tipped to one side. Smiles were preferable to beauty, just at the moment.

Ivo felt as though he was being studied in order to give an accurate description to the Runners and blinked again. It was possible that he was concussed and imagining this. Ladies did not stare closely at men. Nor did they drag them out of the middle of fights into their carriages, as his vague memory told him this one had done.

‘Come on, shall we try to get you out?’ She leaned across him, opened the other door and a man reached in. ‘Yes, that’s right, mind his left shoulder.’ He was seized, dragged out and, as he struggled for balance, dropped.

‘Oh, dear. Well, hopefully that won’t have started it bleeding again,’ his rescuer said blithely as the groom hauled him to his feet again. ‘Now, what did I do with my bonnet and reticule?’

Ivo found himself in an inn yard, unsteady on his feet and held upright by a large young man who smelt strongly of the stables. ‘Where—?’

‘The Pack Horse in Turnham Green. Do you want to lean on me as well? No? This way then.’

‘Who—?’

‘I am Jane Newnham. Ah, Landlord. I would like a private parlour, some hot water, brandy and the services of your best local doctor. My brother has been attacked by footpads,’ she added clearly, with a sharp jab in Ivo’s ribs, presumably so he paid attention to her story. They began to move again. ‘Excellent, thank you. This will do nicely.’

‘Why—?’

‘Because you have been stabbed, I think, and there may be other injuries and my knowledge of human anatomy is entirely theoretical so, although I do not think you are in mortal peril, it is best to make certain. Here we are. Do you want to sit down on this bench or lie on the sofa? It doesn’t look very comfortable and you might drip on it.’

‘I will sit.’

A miracle, I have uttered three words without being interrupted.

The groom deposited him on the bench with a thump.

Ivo bit back the things he felt inclined to say and waited for the lad to shamble out. ‘It appears I am in your debt Miss—is it Miss? Yes?—Newnham. But I confess I am puzzled. I seem to recall being dragged into your carriage and that there were two women in it. Now you appear to be unaccompanied.’

‘That was Billing. I put her out at the last inn and gave her the money to go home. She is my mother’s maid and she was driving me quite distracted, even before you joined us—and we had only driven from Mayfair. I do find disapproving people very wearing, don’t you? It is like being constantly rubbed on the soul with emery paper.’

From her speech and her clothes this was a lady. Therefore, she should not be out alone on the highway, however unusual and whimsical she might be. She should most definitely not be in an inn with a strange man. Ivo said so. Firmly.

‘Nonsense. I could hardly abandon you, now could I? And clearly you are a gentleman or you would not quibble about this. And I told the landlord that I was your sister and I do not know anyone in Turnham Green, so there is absolutely no cause to worry.’

Ivo reminded himself that, until a few weeks past, he had been an officer in his Majesty’s army, had been wounded far more severely than this in the past, did not appear to be concussed and therefore he was more than capable of summoning the authoritative manner necessary to detach this female. Only, if he did, then she would be alone and unescorted. Damn.

‘This sounds like the doctor arriving,’ Miss Newnham said brightly. ‘You are being positively heroic about your wounds, but I am sure he will have you feeling better soon.’

There was a tap at the door and a redheaded, be-freckled man in his late twenties came in and smiled at them. ‘I believe the gentleman has been attacked? I am glad to see you conscious, sir. My name is Jamieson.’ He appeared to be expecting some reaction because he added, ‘I know I do not look old enough, but I assure you that I am a fully qualified graduate of the medical school of Edinburgh University. Now, sir, let us remove your upper garments. I imagine it will require some care.’ He advanced purposefully on Ivo.

‘Doctor Jamieson, there is a lady in the room.’

‘That is quite all right, dear,’ his rescuer said soothingly.

Dear?

‘My brother is being unduly shy. I am sure that between us we can remove his coat and shirt and so forth with less pain to him than if you attempt it alone.’

So forth?

‘Of course, ma’am. It is hardly as though we need to remove your brother’s nether garments, now is it? Ha-ha! At least, not yet.’

Over my dead body are my breeches coming off with this female in the room, Ivo thought grimly.

On the other hand, his shoulder appeared to be infested by devils wielding tiny pitchforks and his ribs were aching as though he had been kicked by a horse, not merely by four brainless louts. He knew from past experience that this process was easier if the patient was relaxed, so he nodded. ‘As you think best, Doctor.’

Miss Newnham was, to do her justice, both gentle and deft and did not fuss about, which usually ended up causing more pain. His coat came off eventually, his waistcoat was simple by comparison, his neckcloth was already untied and after five minutes he was down to his shirt. The makeshift pad that Miss Newnham had applied to his shoulder fell away and he saw she had used something with good lace on it. He would have to replace that, it was clearly beyond repair.

Miss Newnham, who appeared to have no inhibitions whatsoever, was pulling the shirt out of the back of his breeches, the doctor, thank goodness, was tackling the front. He dragged it over Ivo’s head and stepped back.

‘A military man, I assume,’ Jamieson remarked after half a minute’s steady scrutiny from narrowed eyes. ‘You will have a matching pair of shoulders now, sir. What was this one?’ He touched cold fingertips to the old scar above Ivo’s right collarbone.

‘Splinter from a gun carriage that was hit by shot,’ he said tersely and glanced down to the left as a line of blood tickled, creeping down his chest. He could almost feel Miss Newnham’s gaze on his back. The effort not to move made sore muscles tense painfully.

‘If you could arrange for some warm water to be brought, ma’am?’ Jamieson asked.

That, thankfully, sent the woman out of the room. A maid came in with the water a few minutes later and Ivo closed his eyes, sent his consciousness as far away as he could and submitted to the doctor’s probing.

‘Nothing broken,’ Jamieson said eventually. ‘I’ve cleaned out that shoulder wound—not deep, nothing critical hit—and put two stitches in it. The ribs are badly bruised, but I am not a believer in tight bandaging so I’ve not strapped them. Your back will be black and blue before much longer, but there are no serious marks in the kidney region. Everything all right down below?’

Ivo had done what he could to protect down below. There would be bruises across his thighs and shins, but that was all.

‘Perfectly,’ he managed to say. Reaction was beginning to set in now, he could feel his overstretched muscles and nerves quivering with the need to tremble.

‘Here is a clean shirt. Let me help you into it.’

That was almost too much, but he hung on and the doctor did not attempt to tuck it in. Somewhere there was that strange scratch-scritch sound he had noticed in the chaise. His ears must be ringing from a blow at some point in the fight.

‘Now, time we got you into a bed, I believe,’ Jamieson said.

‘My wallet. Should be in my inside coat pocket.’

The other man held up the coat, searched the pockets. ‘Nothing here, I’m afraid. They must have got it when they attacked you.’

‘I have taken rooms for us,’ Miss Newnham said from behind him. The scritching sound had stopped. ‘Do not worry, brother dear, my reticule was quite safe, so we have no cause to worry about funds.’

Uno, dos, tres… Eyes closed, Ivo counted to ten in Spanish in his head. ‘Have you been in this room throughout?’

‘Of course, dear. Now, what do we owe you, Doctor?’

He told her, Ivo made a mental note, there was the clink of coins and then, oddly, the sound of tearing paper.

‘You might like that,’ she said.

‘Why, that is… Marvellous! Thank you, ma’am. What talent. Good day to you, sir. Rest and remain in bed for a day or so if you become at all feverish. You’ve got enough scars on you to know by now how to treat wounds sensibly, I imagine.’

The door closed behind Jamieson as Miss Newnham came around to face Ivo. ‘Your room is just at the head of the stairs on the right. Shall I get one of the grooms to help you?’

‘What were you doing in here?’ he snapped. ‘And what did you give the doctor besides money? And, yes, I can manage a flight of stairs by myself.’ He hoped. ‘Better than being dropped down it by that clumsy lump of a groom.’

Miss Newnham walked away behind him, then came back with a slim, flat book in her hand and flipped it open, holding it for him to see. There was a pencil sketch of the room, of his naked back, of Jamieson bending over him. It was rapid, vivid and anatomically accurate. Shocking, in fact, for a young woman to have produced. ‘I did a quick portrait of him, as well. That is what I gave him.’

‘Was that your pencil I could hear? Were you drawing in the carriage?’

In answer she turned back a page in the sketchbook. There he was, slumped in the corner of the chaise, eyes closed, hair in a mess, clothing disordered. She turned back another page to a portrait of a discontented female, tight-lipped and sour. ‘That is Billing. You can see why I sent her home. She was sending me into a decline, so goodness knows what effect she would have had on you in your weakened condition.’

Chapter Two

The man she had rescued looked at the portrait, then at Jane. ‘She was your chaperon,’ he said, in accents at odds with his battered, disreputable, appearance.

‘She was my gaoler. Never tell me you are shocked? You do not look like someone who would be scandalised by such a thing as a perfectly competent woman travelling alone.’

‘You are not alone,’ he pointed out. ‘And I must look like a complete thatch-gallows.’ He pushed himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly.

‘I am not certain why anyone would want to thatch a gallows, but I can assure you that I can tell from your voice and your clothing—to say nothing of your concern for the proprieties—that you are a gentleman,’ Jane reassured him.

It was not a lie, he did make her feel safe for some reason. She put one hand on his arm. Even through the coarse linen of the shirt she had borrowed from one of the waiters, he felt cold. And hard—although she could feel the faintest tremor beneath her palm. He was exhausted, she guessed, and in pain, and the loss of blood cannot have helped. ‘You should go up to bed and rest now.’

He seemed to consider it, then nodded. At least she was dealing with a reasonable man and not a foolish one who felt he had to pretend to be invincible in front of a female. She gathered up his discarded clothing and opened the door. ‘Just one flight of stairs to manage. The door is open. If you drop all your clothes but that shirt outside, I will have them cleaned and repaired.’

He nodded again and made his way out. She left him to it, conscious of his pride, but watched from the foot of the stairs. ‘What is your name?’

‘Ivo,’ he said, then stopped on the next step up without looking back at her. ‘Major Lord Merton.’ He took two more dogged steps up, then stopped again, one big, scarred hand on the rail. ‘Or, no, I keep forgetting: Lord Kendall.’

‘But the Earl of Kendall died just a few months ago…’ Her brain caught up with her tongue. ‘I do beg your pardon—that was your father?’

‘Yes.’ He kept climbing.

Jane opened her mouth, then closed it firmly. The Earl would not want to stand there discussing his titles on the stairs or satisfying her curiosity about what the grandson, and now heir, of a marquess was doing fighting ridiculous odds in an alehouse.

She waited until the door closed behind him, then climbed the stairs and sat three steps down from the top, waiting for there to either be the sound of about six foot of man hitting the floor or for the door to open and the rest of his clothes to appear.

There was some thumping, but no thudding, and then a pair of boots and a heap of clothing were put outside and it was closed again, very firmly. Jane scooped up everything and carried the bundle down. Out of habit she shook each item out and checked the pockets and found only a handkerchief of plain, good linen and a crumpled bill from an inn dated a week before. She set that aside. Then, as she folded the coat, something crackled. Inside the breast pocket was a folded paper, creased and marked with dirty finger marks. It was unsealed. She smoothed it out and tucked it, along with the inn account, into the pocket in the front of the sketchbook that she used to keep notes and spare pieces of paper flat. Neither looked important and she could replace them in his pocket when the maid had finished setting the clothes to rights.

She found a chambermaid and arranged for whatever washing, pressing and brushing could be managed, then ordered herself a pot of tea in the tiny private parlour.

She was not going to fuss over Lord Kendall, she decided as she sipped. Nor, unusually in her experience, did he appear to expect her to do so. Her father and brother always wanted to be made much of when they were ill. Even a mild cold in the head was grounds for medicines, stream infusions, large fires in the bedchamber and much gruel.

In this case she had organised a hot brick for the bed, a jug of water and some willow bark powder for the bedside and His Lordship’s clothes would be returned to proper order—that, surely, was all that would be required of her.

If he was prepared—and able—to escort her to Batheaston in return for his rescue, then she would be happy to accept, because he was certain to be more entertaining than Billing and he would save her from any male annoyances on the journey.

Unless Lord Kendall proved to be a male annoyance himself… She pondered the question, adding sugar to her tea as she did so, aware that her own immediate instincts might not be reliable. But his manner had held nothing of either the predator, or the rake, and she was quite well aware that, although she was perfectly presentable, she was no beauty to tempt a man to try unwelcome flirting.

Goodness, but Melissa would be delighted with news of this accidental meeting, although Jane rather suspected that Lord Kendall was not good-looking enough to satisfy her fantasies. There was nothing wrong with his height or figure; his hair—and he had all of it—was thick and dark and his teeth seemed good. But he was not what one would consider a handsome man, exactly. He was too…too male for elegance. His brows were too heavy, his mouth set too hard, his jaw looked stubborn and his nose was not straight. The heroes of Melissa’s novels tended to be elegant, blond and modelled on Grecian statues—with the addition of clothing, of course.

Jane picked up her sketchbook and studied her drawings. He did have admirably defined muscles which would be both educational, and a pleasure, to draw in more detail. Although that pursuit of accurate detail was what had landed her in trouble in the first place…

I am an artist, I must not be hidebound by convention, I must be prepared to suffer for my art, she told herself. If drawing Lord Kendall naked could be defined as suffering, exactly. As if I could ever pluck up the courage to ask him to pose in any degree of undress.

When the clock struck six Jane decided to order her dinner and to send one of the waiters up to see whether Lord Kendall was awake and, if so, whether he wanted anything to eat. The parlour appeared to have no bell, so she opened the door. ‘Oh!’

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Newnham.’ The Earl stepped back so that her nose was no longer virtually in his neckcloth. ‘I was about to knock.’

‘You have your clothes back,’ she said.

Idiot, of course he has!

‘As you see.’ A fastidious valet would probably shudder, but the inn staff had done an excellent job and had even managed to iron the neckcloth into some semblance of crispness.

‘Would you like to come in and sit down? I was just about to find someone and order dinner. It is early, I know, but I have to confess to feeling decidedly hungry.’

‘Thank you.’ He stepped into the room just as a maid appeared behind him, looking harassed and wiping her hands on her apron.

‘The missus says, sorry the bell isn’t there, but a gentleman in his cups fell over and pulled it out of the ceiling last week and would you and the gentleman be wanting anything in the way of dinner, miss? Only the London stage is due in about ten minutes and the Mail half an hour after that and the kitchen will be in a right bustle when they get in.’

‘We were just about to order. Do you have an appetite, my… Ivo dear?’

He gave her a look down that not-straight nose. ‘I do indeed, Jane dear.’

‘Well, we’ve got game pie or a roast fowl or there’s some collops of veal in a cream sauce. And oxtail soup to start and an apple pie and cream.’

‘Everything, if you please,’ said His Lordship. ‘And send in the cellar man.’

‘Should you be drinking wine or spirits if you have had a blow to the head?’ Jane enquired. ‘I am not nagging,’ she said hastily when she got The Look again. ‘Merely concerned that you do not throw a fever, because that would hold us up.’ She sat down at the table to demonstrate her lack of desire to fuss over him.

‘Us? I was not aware that there was an us.’ Lord Kendall drew out a chair and sat opposite, both hands flat on the table like a man ready to jump up and leave at any moment.

Jane found herself studying the grazes across the knuckles, the neatly trimmed nails, the tendons and veins, the plain gold signet ring, and jerked her attention away. This was no time to wonder about making a series of studies of hands.

‘You have no money, I do. If I had not rescued you, goodness knows what would have happened to you. As a result of that rescue I am without my maid. You could escort me to Batheaston.’

‘It would be scandalous for you to travel with an unrelated man. If I had any confidence that I could ride that distance just now, then I would offer to escort you on horseback and you could hire a maid to travel with you in the carriage. As it is, the option of staying here together until I am strong enough to ride is an even more outrageous proposition.’

‘You are very honest about your strength,’ she remarked, intrigued. ‘Most men would pretend they were perfectly capable, whatever the truth of the matter.’

‘If we encounter trouble and my right arm is not strong enough to use a pistol—not that we have one—or otherwise deal with an attacker, then I would have put my self-esteem above your safety.’ He studied her for a long moment. ‘Are you acquainted with many gentlemen?’

‘My father, my brother, the local gentry and their sons. Oh, and the Bishop of Elmham—the retired one—and his secretary and the Duke of Aylsham. I was a bridesmaid at his recent wedding.’

‘You move in very respectable circles, Miss Newnham.’

‘You mean the Duke being such a pattern card of perfection? I can assure you, marriage to my good friend Verity, who is the Bishop’s daughter, has changed him considerably.’

‘Why am I not surprised by that?’

Jane felt the sudden heat in her cheeks. ‘Might I suggest that we do not quarrel, Lord Kendall? Otherwise I might be inclined to take myself—and my money—elsewhere.’

‘I meant,’ he said, with only the faintest twitch of bruised lips, ‘that Aylsham doubtless required enlivening.’

Hmm, Jane thought. That was as neat a piece of foot-removal from mouth as I have ever heard.

‘Of course you did,’ she said cordially. He stared back, his expression blandly innocent. ‘You are not at all what I expected an earl to be like.’

‘No? I have spent the last nine years in the army, perhaps that accounts for it. I have had only three months’ practice at being an earl and only two weeks of that in this country.’

‘Nine? My goodness. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven. I joined as an ensign.’

He looked older, she would have guessed at thirty, but perhaps that was the bruises and cuts and general air of hard-won experience. ‘I am twenty-two,’ she offered in an attempt to elicit more confidences.

‘And fresh from the Season, I presume?’

‘I have not had a London Season. Papa considered that local society would be quite sufficient, although Mama disagrees.’

And I have an expensive older brother, she could have added, but did not.

‘And was it sufficient? There is no fiancé or a string of beaux left behind in London?’

‘They would be in Dorset if I had any, which I do not. We were only in London visiting Aunt Hermione for a month because she has been unwell. Not that I want a beau, let alone a betrothal.’

Lord Kendall stopped tracing a crack in the planked table top with his index finger and looked up sharply. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Marriage and husbands seem to complicate life so much. They restrict it. I am an artist. Matrimony and art are not compatible—unless one is a man, of course.’

It was the first time she had said it out loud, the thing she had been thinking secretly. It felt momentous, just to say the words, I am an artist, and to mean them, not as a description of what she enjoyed doing as a pastime, but as something that defined her, Jane Newnham. Artist.

‘Surely that is not what you should expect of marriage. You certainly draw with great proficiency and insight, but what has a husband to do with that? Most ladies sketch and paint in watercolour and I assume you all have drawing masters or governesses to teach you.’

‘I am not interested in a mere genteel pastime,’ Jane explained. The strange sense of recklessness her declaration had produced seemed to sweep through her, take over her voice. ‘I want—I need—to improve, to paint in oils to be as good as I want, to be able to paint portraits to a professional standard.’

‘You mean, earn your living as a portrait painter? Impossible,’ Lord Kendall said flatly.

Is that what I meant? Could I do that?

It was a terrifying prospect, something that had never occurred to her. Then his look of disapproving incredulity struck home.

Anyone would think it was the equivalent of earning a living on my back.

Jane almost said so, swallowed, and recited, ‘Artemisia Gentileschi, Elisabeth Vigée le Brun, Angelica Kauffman, Mary Beale, Sofonisba Anguissola—’ She wished she could think of more female artists, especially modern English ones.

‘Exceptions that prove the rule. I refuse to believe in that last one and, besides, you are an English gentlewoman of tender years. You must have a husband.’ There was an edge to that statement, some hint of scorn, almost. Whatever it was, it made her bristle. If he had not thought it a possibility, why had he suggested it? And the thought was tantalising, alluring and dangerous. Could she?

‘I must have a husband?’ Jane snorted inelegantly, almost drunk on the terror of her own rebellion, on the possibilities his careless, scornful suggestion had thrown up. ‘I shall be an independent artist and I neither need nor want a husband. Men are dull or unsuitable or untrustworthy. Or lacking in originality and imagination.’

‘Thank you.’ This time his lips showed no sign of that amused twitch.

‘There is no need to take it personally. You are an earl and heir to a marquess,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘You are certainly more than suitable. For all I know you might be exciting and faithful. But it is academic, I am not talking about you.’

‘We might be if your family discovers that we are spending the night here.’ That was said without the hint of scorn.

Aha, there was definitely an amused twinkle in his eyes just now.

And they were rather nice eyes, dark blue, long-lashed. His best feature, in fact, although there were those shoulders… It was gratifying to make the blue sparkle and it would be a challenge to catch that in oils. But one battered earl was not the problem.

How much could I charge for a portrait? Could I really make my living?

He was still regarding her quizzically.

‘They will not discover it,’ she assured him. ‘Why ever should they?’

‘Miss Newnham—’

‘Call me Jane, then we do not risk tripping up in our pretence of being brother and sister,’ she suggested. Wrestling with the practicalities of their present situation was at least calming.

‘Very practical, Jane. And I am Ivo, although I think you may forgo the frequent dears. Siblings are rarely so affectionate from what I have observed.’

That was true, in her experience at least. She and Hubert, her brother, had quarrelled their way through childhood and had nothing in common as adults.

The maid came in, unfurled a large white cloth across the table, replaced the tea things when Jane clutched at the tea pot, produced cutlery from her apron pocket and bustled out again.

‘Ivo is a nice name. An unusual name. Mine is so dull—Plain Jane.’ She poured herself more tea. ‘Shall I ring for another cup? No? If I am to succeed as an artist, I think I should change it.’ Already in her imagination a picture was forming of a studio, an easel, a chair and a chaise longue for her subjects, a scattering of tasteful props and drapes, herself in a flowing smock, paintbrushes stuck in her elegant but artistic coiffure. The dream of achieving elegance with her mousy, rather fine and wayward hair was perhaps the most improbable element of that vision.

‘Like a nom de plume?’ Ivo queried. ‘That would be nom de pinceau, I think.’

‘Paintbrush name?’ She found herself smiling at him. ‘I should have to find something, certainly. Bath would be an excellent place to set up a studio, don’t you think?’

‘No, I do not. How much money do you have, Miss Newnham?’ The sudden switch to seriousness wiped the delightful imaginings from her mind and, with them, the flutter of happiness.

She did not want to be serious. Laughter kept the nerves about what she had just discovered about herself from tying her stomach in knots. Jane raised her eyebrows with mock hauteur. ‘It is surely somewhat early in our acquaintance for you to be considering dowries, Lord Kendall.’

He did not rise to her teasing, the irritating man. ‘I could not agree more,’ he said with unflattering emphasis. ‘I meant, how much money do you have at your immediate disposal?’

‘Thirty pounds. Sufficient for the journey and contingencies.’

‘That is ample to hire a respectable maid for the remainder of your journey—and to sleep in your bedchamber tonight. I am sure this inn could supply you with a suitable young woman for a few days.’

It was what she had told Billing to do, not what she wanted to hear herself. ‘We have already established that there is not room for three in that chaise. Not in any comfort.’

‘I remain here, of course.’ The bruises, which were beginning to colour up nicely, did nothing to make his expression any more amiable.

‘With no money, no means of identification, a wound in your shoulder and the visage of a not very successful pugilist, my lord?’ He was unsettling her and it helped to hit back. ‘Unless you have an acquaintance living nearby, I suggest that it might be a long walk to wherever you might be known.’

‘I am aware of that. I am also aware that I have placed a lady in a compromising position. What becomes of me need not concern you.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Jane jumped up. The tea things rattled and she just managed to stop the milk jug from tipping over. Lord Kendall got to his feet, but she flapped one hand at him, irritated. ‘Sit, do. I want to pace up and down so as not to throw the sugar bowl at you. I did not haul you into my chaise and prepare to fend off ruffians with my parasol to leave you battered and destitute here. Those louts may have followed us for all you know.’

‘Indeed. Another excellent reason why I want you to go. It is not too late now for us to find you a maid and for you to drive to the next inn for the night.’

‘I am not leaving you like this. You are patronising, irritating and, just at the moment, a thorough nuisance, but I refuse to have you on my conscience.’

‘And I will not have your ruined reputation on mine.’ He stood up again, clearly furious at having to grab at the back of a chair for balance.

‘Poppycock,’ Jane pronounced inelegantly. ‘I will feel much safer with a gentleman’s escort than with an unknown maidservant. And do sit down, you are swaying. No one knows me and, with you having been abroad until recently and with your face like that, I doubt anyone would recognise you either.’ A fleeting memory of something Cousin Violet had been gossiping about when she had last seen her came to mind. ‘And your grandfather has an estate close to Bath, does he not? Exactly where you need to be.’

Chapter Three

There was a pain in his hand and Ivo looked down to see his knuckles white on the back rail of the chair. He unclenched his fingers. His grandfather’s house: exactly where he did not want to be and precisely where he should have gone on arriving back in England instead of haring off on that wild goose chase after Daphne Parris. Charles Parris’s wilful little sister. The girl he had grown up with, seen transform from a plain, sulky child into an exquisite young woman in front of his bedazzled eyes.

He had fallen in love, had proposed on the eve of his departure with Charles to join their regiment in France. She would wait, she had promised, if he would promise to come back to her. He was her hero, so gallant, so fine in his scarlet regimentals. She had been enchanting, that evening, so lovely in her wide-eyed admiration of him and he had felt like a demi-god, believing he could defeat Napoleon single-handed if she only wished it.

He had known her parents would think her too young for a formal betrothal and she had, too, but they could keep it a secret, she had agreed as they exchanged tokens—an enamelled heart on a chain for her, a lock of her hair for him. That white-blonde curl had been in the wallet he had lost in Knightsbridge.

Had he been arrogant to believe the love she had professed so ardently would last and that she would wait until the fighting ended? Deluded, perhaps. It seemed that he had misunderstood the depths of her feelings, but not his own, not as the war had dragged on across Spain.

His promise to Daphne had brought him through times when it would have been easier just to give in and die. And then Charles, dying of one enemy neither of them could defeat, had told him that news had reached him that Daphne intended to marry a rakehell baronet. Ivo must promise to stop her, Charles had pleaded. He was the only one who had known of the secret betrothal and he could not seem to grasp that his sister might actually jilt his best friend.

And Ivo did swear to it, reassuring Charles that it would all be well, even as he fought back the pain at Daphne’s betrayal, his mind reeling with the shock that she had changed so much and he had not been able, somehow, to sense it. He had promised Charles and he had failed.

He had told himself that it must be a misunderstanding, that she had lost faith in him somehow and that it could all be set right if only they could talk. That had kept him together, right up until the moment that they were face to face. After that… How were you supposed to feel when the woman you loved rejected you, sent men after you to beat that rejection into your thick skull? Did she hate him so much—or was this how a woman who married in defiance of friends and family and sacred promises reacted to defend that decision?

‘Why were you in that alehouse?’ Jane asked abruptly, jerking him out of the dark downward spiral of his thoughts. ‘Are you avoiding your grandfather?’

That is usually the most restful option…

‘I had made a promise to a friend. A dead friend.’

‘Oh. I am so sorry.’ She sat down again. ‘And that deathbed promise was what sent you into danger?’

‘Charles—that was my friend’s name—was worried about his younger sister. It seems he had every reason to be anxious, although at first I thought he was exaggerating because he was in a fever. I could not believe that Daphne would be so…foolish.’ So disloyal. ‘I tried to tell him he was worrying about nothing, tried to keep him calm but, when the story became clearer, I realised it was serious. She was being courted by a baronet with a wild reputation. I won’t name him, but Charles was convinced that he had no good intentions towards Daphne, who is well dowered and fatherless into the bargain. Besides, she was already promised to someone else.’ Someone who was not in England to protect her. Someone who had thought that a love could be kept alive for years on hasty, irregular letters scrawled by campfires.

‘Once news reached England of Charles’s death there would be no one to stop her or to warn off her seducer.’ Except the man who had blithely gone off to fight the French in the happy certainty that Miss Parris would sit at home patiently waiting for him.

‘And she would not heed her brother? Had he managed to write to her?’

‘He did—and received a letter in reply. She was certain it was love. The man to whom she had had an understanding was not there, she had grown tired of waiting for him because he would surely have come for her if his feelings were true. She felt neglected, I am certain.’

And I should have thought more about how young she was, how much she would need the reassurance of constant letters, not my scribbled notes when I had the time and the energy to think of that other world apart from the battlefield.

He tried to keep those betraying emotions from his face and from Jane’s bright, interested gaze, and was fairly certain he succeeded. But was the fault his neglect of her—or a fundamental misunderstanding of Daphne’s character? Or had he mistaken the depth of her feelings for him in the first place?

‘Charles declared that he would ask for leave, just as soon as he could haul himself out of bed. He had no idea just how sick he was, I realised. He told me that he would go home, forbid the match. He was his sister’s guardian, after all, and he could not sit by and let her fall into the hands of a confirmed rakehell, even if she was prepared to break her engagement to the man he had expected her to marry.

‘Charles had tossed and turned, distressed that his sister could have betrayed his best friend, tormented by his inability to imagine why she had done so. “I must stop her,” he’d said, just before he sank into the final delirium. I promised to do what I could. I would have done so even without that promise. I had known her all the years she was growing up.’

I loved her. Despite everything I still…

‘But you were in the army—how could you get away?’ Jane leant forward, both elbows on the table among the cups and saucers. Her eyes were fixed on his face. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as though she was listening to some gripping tale of derring-do. Clearly she had no idea that this was even more personal than he was admitting.

‘I would have asked for leave, of course, but, in the event, the news of my father’s death reached me on the day we buried Charles. I had every good reason to hasten home to England and sell out and my colonel sent me on my way with his blessing. The Treaty of Fontainebleau had been signed, Napoleon was defeated, I could easily be spared.

‘I was too late: Daphne had already eloped from home with her dubious baronet. Her aunts were distraught, but finally received a letter from her four days ago. She was back from Scotland where they had married and had been for weeks. I found her in her new home, a crumbling old house just outside Kensington. Sir Clement was away from home and I thought that being abandoned with cobwebs and surly, unpaid servants while he dealt with unspecified business would be enough to bring her to her senses. I suggested that he was paying off his most pressing creditors with promises of Daphne’s money, but that got me a vase thrown at my head.’ He did not repeat to Jane the angry, defiant words she had thrown first. It was foolish of him to believe that such beauty was incapable of venting such spite and anger. He was shocked as well as hurt. What had happened to the laughing, clinging girl he had left behind?

‘Ouch,’ Jane sympathised.

‘I ducked,’ he said with a shrug, pride making him hide the personal hurt from her. ‘It hardly touched me. She was defiant and determined and she refused my offer to take her back to her aunts while the problem could be settled of how legal the marriage was. I told her that the courts might be able set aside the union, although it would take some time and money. I pointed out that she was still just under age, was abducted from her home and married without her brother’s permission.’ And he had managed it calmly, somehow hanging on to his temper, somehow refusing to let Daphne see how deeply this affected him. All he had achieved was to salvage a little empty pride.

‘How did she respond?’ Jane asked. ‘With another vase?’

‘No,’ he said wryly. ‘She laughed in my face and told me that she loved her husband, that she knew perfectly well he was a rakehell and that was what she wanted, not a dull husband like all her friends had married.’

Like me, the man she was promised to, the man who had dared put duty before her.

‘She wanted adventure, freedom—’

He sought for the least shocking way of translating Daphne’s frank admissions. ‘She had come to appreciate the joys of the marriage bed, she told me as she tugged on the bell pull and demanded that I leave. I could hardly abduct her myself, so I left to think over my tactics. I was aware that I was being followed, but thought no more of it than that she did not want to risk my return. An hour later, I was nursing a pint of ale and facing the fact that there was probably nothing I could do other than to report back to her aunts that she was not being held against her will and wanted to remain in the marriage. Then I was facing four large louts with clubs and brass knuckles.

‘It seems she felt that, to ensure I left her alone, I needed more convincing than her words could achieve. Or perhaps she feared that I would confront her husband. Whichever it was, she had sent her grooms to deal with me. You arrived in the midst of their very persuasive arguments for forgetting the whole thing and going away.’

So, yes, he did want to go down to Merton Tower because he wanted to lay his hands on the best legal advice. And the man who would know how to find it—if he was not already employing it—was his famously litigious grandfather. He could go back to London and waste time trying to find the right lawyers to help the aunts with what was, almost certainly, a hopeless cause or he could swallow his pride and ask the Marquess. And, faced with Daphne Parris’s welfare, his pride was unimportant. She was in the hands not just of a rakehell, but, it now seemed, one who employed violent brutes as his grooms.

‘If she has lain with him, then she may be with child already,’ Jane pointed out, with far less embarrassment than a single lady should be showing when discussing such a thing. ‘And even if she is not, then surely the fact that the marriage has been consummated will make any kind of annulment very difficult, especially as she would probably protest that she was entirely willing to go with him. And if it was possible to separate them despite that, her reputation would be in tatters.’ Her brow was creased with thought as she concentrated on the problem. If she was shocked by Daphne’s story, then she was hiding the fact.

‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘But I promised Charles I would try.’

And I owe that laughing, reckless, charming friend of my childhood something. If only I could believe that some trace of her remains.

‘And you have tried and she now knows of someone who will help her if she does repent of the match,’ Jane said.

‘True.’ That had not occurred to him and it was some small consolation. Daphne had shown the spirit and determination to do what she had wanted and, surely, if she came to regret her actions she would show as much determination in escaping. ‘I do need to get to Bath,’ he admitted finally as he sat down. ‘If we are careful, then we should escape detection and a scandal of our own.’

To her credit, Jane Newnham showed neither disappointment in him for failing to extricate the deluded bride nor triumph at getting her own way and his escort. He was coming, reluctantly, to like his improbable rescuer.

‘That is a relief,’ she said. ‘I will feel so much more comfortable with your company on the road and I will not have to worry about you.’

It was a novelty, to have anyone to worry about him. His mother had died when he was five, he had no siblings and his father had appeared to believe that no Merton might be vulgar enough to be shot, skewered or blown up on a battlefield and, therefore, there was no cause for concern when his only son joined the army. Ivo wondered sometimes if the late Earl had ever seen him as anything other than the fulfilment of his duty. The title had been secured, tutors and instructors would look after the boy, there was nothing for him to trouble himself about.

As for his grandfather’s emotions, they had always been a mystery to him.

‘We will have our dinner soon. If we retire immediately after it, then we will be able to make an early start.’ Jane finished her tea and carried the tray to the sideboard.

‘It seems I have acquired a very managing sister,’ he said. He meant it for a joke and wondered at the shadow that seemed to cross her face.

‘It is about time I learned to manage and not be a mouse,’ she said, with no amusement in her voice at all. ‘I have accepted too much and not thought of alternatives.’ The alternatives she appeared to be thinking about did not seem to be making her very happy, judging by her frown.

That sudden seriousness was a pity, Ivo thought, leaning back in the chair and trying to find a position where his bruised ribs would allow him to breathe in comfort. Jane’s voice was pleasant, but nothing out of the ordinary until she was amused, when he found it made him want to smile, even when he did not know what the joke was.

There was clearly some difficult history behind that bitter remark, just as there was behind her quite impossible implication that she intended to earn her living from her art. He was curious, but he did not know her well enough to probe—she would, very rightly, snub curious questions. Still, pondering someone else’s concerns was a pleasant distraction from considerations of either his own future or the futility of attempting to save Daphne, the stubborn Lady Meredith, from herself. He flatly refused to let himself think any more tonight about his own feelings for Daphne.

The maid came in with a laden tray and began to set food out on the table. She was followed by the cellarman, cobwebs in his hair and on the vast baize apron he wore, and Ivo discussed what he recommended, received a frown from Jane when he ordered ratafia for her and added a light hock to his own order of claret.

‘I am resolved to ask for what I want and not meekly accept what is considered appropriate,’ she said a few minutes later, wrinkling her nose in distaste over the word as she ladled out steaming oxtail soup.

‘Are you used to drinking wine?’ he asked, suddenly wary. Jane was a handful sober, he winced inwardly at the thought of her a trifle high-flown.

‘An occasional glass with meals,’ she said demurely. ‘Ratafia makes my teeth ache, it is so sweet.’

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on passing him his bowl of soup and Ivo watched her, speculating on just why she was so set against marriage. This business about setting up as an artist was obviously so much fantasy. His immediate reaction was to wonder if she had become tired of being a wallflower, but he could not believe that the gentlemen of her acquaintance would be so unappreciative of such an interesting young lady. No great beauty, of course, but perfectly passable and clearly equipped with the correct social graces when she chose to utilise them.

‘Your parents cannot approve of your desire to paint professionally,’ Ivo remarked when the business of passing bread rolls and butter was dealt with. ‘But they must be aware of your considerable talent.’

‘Young ladies learn to sketch and to paint in watercolour. Approved themes are landscape, children and rural scenes—provided the rustics inhabiting the landscape are picturesque and not squalidly poor. Serious figure painting or the use of oils is not considered suitable,’ she informed him. ‘Besides, they do not know of my ambitions.’

‘So how did you learn?’

‘I had a watercolour and drawing tutor. Then my friend Verity, the one who has married the Duke of Aylsham, held regular meetings for her friends at her home. Our parents believed we were gathering to read worthy texts. Instead we had an entire turret in the Bishop’s Palace to ourselves and our work.’ He must have shown his surprise at the word because she put down her spoon with some emphasis. ‘Female occupations may be work and just as serious as men’s interests. Verity is an antiquarian. I paint. Lucy is a pianist, Melissa is a novelist and Prudence is a Classical scholar. None of us has parents who approve of our passions except for Verity. The Bishop is also a scholar and encourages her work.’

‘I gather that not a great deal of reading was done in your reading circle.’

‘On occasion Melissa reads novels, Prudence reads Greek and Latin texts, Lucy reads music, Verity studies learned journals and I dip into the lives of painters. As far as our parents are concerned we study sermons and tracts together. Although the Bishop has retired—he had a stroke, poor man—he is still sent any manner of spiritual publications. Our parents are most impressed by the tone of the pamphlets we bring home.’

‘And the Bishop connives in this?’

‘He has no idea we are doing anything of which our parents would not approve and so he has been very generous in continuing to allow us to use Verity’s tower, even though she has married and left home. He can hear the pianoforte, of course, and he would admire my sketches of the garden. He knew Lucy borrows books from his library and that Melissa writes, but then, all young ladies do these things. As amateurs. Dabbling,’ she said with a suggestion of gritted teeth, ‘is encouraged, but Heaven forfend that we become serious.’

‘But you have left your remaining friends, and your tower of sanctuary, and are travelling to stay with a relative.’

‘Yes.’ She tore the bread roll in half with a vicious twist that made Ivo wince. ‘In disgrace.’

‘Might I ask for what reason? Not, I assume because of an unwise…er…friendship with a man, from what you have said about your views on marriage.’

‘Oh, it was a man,’ Jane said blithely. ‘Arnold the under-footman.’

Ivo froze, soup spoon halfway to his lips. ‘A footman?’

‘He has quite remarkable muscular development—apparently he boxes in his own time—and I wanted to draw him and he was perfectly willing to strip off for half a guinea.’

‘You were drawing him in the nu—? Nak—? Without clothes?’

‘Of course. That is, he was without clothes, I was not. But how else am I going to learn about male anatomy?’ she asked with sweet reasonableness.

Ivo dropped his spoon. Regrettably there was still soup in the bowl and the result was not helpful to his general appearance. ‘From books?’ he suggested, attempting to remedy matters with his napkin. ‘Prints of art works? Statues?’

‘It is not the same as real flesh and blood,’ Jane pointed out. ‘It was remarkably useful to see your back under tension, for example.’ His expression must have finally registered because she added, ‘Naturally, I will give you the drawing if you wish. I am aware that I was carried away by the opportunity and should have asked your permission first. But it was so useful to see your spine close to,’ she said wistfully.

Ivo reflected—inappropriately, given present company—that women had expressed appreciation of his body before now, but never in quite those terms and none of them had seemed remotely interested in his vertebrae. ‘Please, keep it,’ he said, dropping the napkin back into his lap. ‘Feel free.’

Jane looked up with such eagerness on her face that he was irrationally glad of the napkin’s coverage, even though there was the table between them. ‘I meant,’ he said repressively, as much for himself as for her, ‘feel free to keep the picture. Although not to draw any more of me.’ Her face fell. ‘Not in any absence of clothes, at any rate.’

The room was becoming remarkably hot and he wished he could mop his brow.

‘Thank you.’ Her smile was sudden, sunny, and he found himself smiling back despite the fact that she was going to prove a confounded nuisance and a worry he could well do without.

But she saved you from a much worse beating, his conscience reminded him.

The maid came in to clear the soup and Ivo changed the subject abruptly. Things were bad enough without informing the inn’s staff that his ‘sister’ drew men in the nude. ‘I suggest we stop at Newbury tomorrow night. That is about fifty miles. I imagine that you will not want to travel further in one day.’

A roast fowl and a carving knife were set in front of him along with a pie with a flaking golden crust. A dish with the rich aroma of cream and onions was placed in front of Jane. The maid deposited a bowl of vegetables in the middle of the table and made way for the cellarman with his bottles.

‘Fifty miles sounds quite far enough,’ Jane agreed. ‘We will be lucky to do it in six hours, I imagine, and with your injuries that is quite long enough to be bounced about in a chaise. Game pie or veal? They both look very good.’

‘Some of each, please. Would you care for some chicken?’

My goodness, we are both managing a very good appearance of gentility—me with my bruises and she with her scandalous intentions.

Jane cut into the pie, placed a generous portion on a plate, added a slice of veal and some sauce, leaving room for vegetables, and pushed the plate across the table, receiving a chicken wing and a slice of breast in return. She helped herself to peas and carrots, with a mental lecture on eating too much—there was apple pie still to come—and took a sustaining sip of wine, then another appreciative swallow.

‘I beg your pardon? I am afraid I missed that.’

‘I was merely moaning,’ she confessed. ‘With pleasure.’

Ivo narrowed his eyes at her. For some reason there was colour on his cheekbones. Perhaps the roast fowl had been very hot.

‘The wine,’ Jane explained. ‘Delicious.’ She waited while he added chicken and vegetables to his loaded plate—clearly the military habit of eating well when one had the opportunity had not left him. ‘I had not expected such good food. And the Pelican at Speenhamland, just outside Newbury, has a very good reputation, I believe, so we should eat well again tomorrow night.’

‘The Pelican is extortionately expensive.’ Ivo poured red wine into his own glass. ‘There is a rhyme that says it is called the Pelican because of its enormous bill.’

‘We can afford it,’ Jane said, with an airy wave of her wine glass. The hock was really exceedingly good and eating alone with a gentleman had all the pleasure of novelty.

‘You should be saving your resources. Naturally, I will repay you as soon as possible, but splashing your blunt around at the Pelican, as though we were Admiral Nelson—’

‘He is dead,’ Jane pointed out. Perhaps she would try a little of the game pie as well, it did smell delicious, and the food was just slipping down with the aid of the wine. It was so pleasant not to have Mama sending her warning looks down the table.

‘A lady eats like a dainty bird. A lady has the most refined appetite. A lady drinks half a glass of wine at the most…’

‘Do you think ladies should just peck at their food and not show an appetite?’

‘No.’ Ivo sounded definite. ‘For a start it is a waste of the effort the cooks have put into preparing the food and food should not be wasted. Going hungry is no joke. Besides, a lady with a healthy appetite for food usually has a healthy appetite for—’ He broke off, coughing. ‘Sorry, a crumb in my throat. For life, I was going to say.’

‘Are you all right? You have become quite pink.’

‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’ Ivo topped up his glass. ‘To get back to what we were discussing: Nelson might be dead, but everyone who is anyone calls at the Pelican.’

Jane shrugged. ‘But I am not anyone, I am merely an unknown lady from Dorset. And no one will recognise you with those bruises if they are not expecting to see you. We must think of a surname if we agree to continue as brother and sister.’ She scanned the table for inspiration and fixed on the vegetable dish. ‘Pease? Pomeroy? Pomfret? Poppinghall?’

‘Preposterous. We are Mr and Miss Turnham who will be taking a private parlour—and going off to find an inn in Newbury if there is no privacy to be had at the Pelican, believe me!’

‘Yes, Ivo,’ Jane agreed meekly, earning herself a suspicious look. It was a novelty to get her own way about anything, almost as much as this whole adventure was new and exciting. Mama and Papa were loving parents, but they were also exceedingly conventional ones, in her opinion. And Mama was ambitious. Jane would be a pattern book of good behaviour if constant nagging could achieve it—and as a consequence of this behaviour she was confident that Jane would find herself an eligible partner. Even a titled one might be possible because, as Mrs Newnham kept repeating ad nauseum, ‘Look at what Verity Wingate has managed.’

Jane had pointed out that there were no eligible dukes presently available, but that had merely sent her mother back to the Peerage to check each ducal line for unmarried heirs, or sons of heirs. But none was in Dorset and it was too much for even the most optimistic mama to hope that any would stray into the path of Miss Newnham, so her parents, who had treated as mere politeness previous vague invitations from Aunt Hermione in her letters, had decided to see what might be achieved.

‘Poor dear Hermione has not been well, it seems. We really should make the effort to visit her now she has recovered. And she has such a generous nature,’ Mama had murmured.

Jane had no trouble in translating that as, If we play our cards right my wealthy sister-in-law will fund a come-out.

Her father’s younger sister was inclined to approve of her niece, it seemed, and the hoped-for invitation for Jane to make her somewhat belated London debut next Season was on the verge of being made, if the hints Aunt had dropped were to be believed. And then, one naked footman later, Jane was on her way to the sedate safekeeping of Cousin Violet whose sole male indoor servant was sixty if he was a day.

Her wine glass was empty and both the bottles were nearer Ivo’s side of the table. Jane pointed this out.

‘You have had quite enough to drink.’

‘Two glasses only.’

‘Three and that is doubtless two too many.’

Perhaps it would not be as easy as she had thought, getting her own way with Lord Kendall. Jane reached for the bottle and he moved it out of reach, his expression suddenly reminding her that he had been an officer and was used to being obeyed.

‘You, my lord, are no f…fun.’ Although perhaps he was right after all, her tongue had almost got in a tangle and it was a most improper thing to say, mumbled or otherwise.

‘I am delighted that you think so, because that is absolutely the impression I wish to give, Miss Newnham. This entire expedition should not be amusing, entertaining or, in any way, fun. If we are fortunate it will be routine, dull and uneventful. If not, it has the potential for scandal, disaster and extreme embarrassment—’

He broke off as they were interrupted once again with more food—the promised apple pie. The open door admitted the noise and bustle of stagecoach passengers, the sound of the guard blowing his horn, impatient to be off, the cries of, ‘Here! Waiter!’

‘Close the door firmly, please,’ Ivo said to the maid as she carried out the remains of the main course. ‘You see—anyone could blunder in at any time. I must be mad. We should return you to your parents, not be planning to set out towards Bath.’

‘Absolutely not. Oh, bother, she has forgotten the cream.’ Jane looked round, then remembered that the bell was not functioning.

‘I should not have even contemplated going to Batheaston with you,’ Ivo said, ignoring the cream shortage completely. ‘I cannot imagine what I was thinking. I will take you back to your parents in London first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘No! I will not go and you cannot make me.’

‘I most certainly can.’ Ivo got to his feet and circled the table to her side.

He’s in pain, she realised, even as she pushed her chair back. Tired and in pain.

He was white under the tan his army life had given him and he could not quite hide the wince as he moved his arm incautiously. It was an effort to feel sympathetic with a large male looming over her, but she made the attempt.

‘Shall we sleep on it? In the morn—’

There was a sudden increase in noise behind her, the door swung open. ‘I quite forgot the cream, miss. We’re that busy—’

The maid broke off with a little shriek as Ivo moved and the door hit him square on the wounded shoulder. With a gasp he spun round under a shower of something white, thick and sticky.

‘Oh, lawks, miss.’

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