Regency Surrender: Sinful Conquests: The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux / The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone
apt to let all of Cris’s secrets out of the bag if he wasn’t stopped. Cris threw up the casement, climbed over the sill and dropped the ten feet to the rough grass path behind the house.
‘Sir!’ He looked up to see Collins leaning out. ‘May I assist, sir?’ He kept his voice to a discreet whisper. It was not the first time both he and Cris had left a building by way of the window and Cris suspected that the valet enjoyed missions where there was a strong element of cloak and dagger work as much as he did.
‘Lord Edenbridge is riding down the lane, I need to head him off.’ He was off, running, before Collins could reply, shouldered his way through the narrow gap in the shrubbery behind the house and sprinted up the lane past the entrance to the service yard.
Gabriel reined in, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the moment Cris emerged. The horse, battle-trained, went down on its haunches, ready to kick out, then Gabriel relaxed, clicked his tongue and the horse was still.
‘My good fellow,’ he drawled as Cris arrived at his stirrup. ‘I am looking for my friend Cris de Feaux. Elegant, well-dressed gentleman, a certain dignity and refinement in his manner. Anyone answering to that description around here?’
Cris shoved the hair back out of his eyes. ‘Buffoon.’
‘I am a buffoon? By the sainted Brummell, what have you done to yourself? Your hair hasn’t been cut, you’re as brown as a farm labourer—and your clothes!’ He surveyed Cris from head to foot. ‘What the devil has happened to you?’
‘I just climbed out of the window. What are you doing here? I wanted information, not the dubious pleasure of your company. And it is Defoe, not de Feaux.’
‘It all sounded intriguing and I needed to remove myself from temptation in London.’ He shrugged when Cris raised an interrogative brow. ‘A sudden impulse of decency in regards to a woman.’ His habitually cynical expression deepened. ‘A lady. I thought it better to remove myself before I discovered that I was on the verge of becoming reformed. So here I am, complete with the cargo from Bath, armed to the teeth and looking for adventure. And, judging by the state of the roads hereabouts, this is probably the end of the known world, so adventure should be forthcoming.’
‘You will fit right in. There are smugglers hereabouts and I would guess we’re about two generations from pirates.’ With his unruly black hair, his gypsy-dark eyes, his rakehell attitude and the sword at his side, Gabriel Stone, earl or not, looked as though he was up for any criminal activity. ‘Listen, we must make this fast. I am plain Mr Defoe and you had better be simply Mr Stone. This is not a part of the world used to the aristocracy and I do not want to cause complications.’
‘Or raise expectations. I assume there’s a woman in the case?’
‘A lady.’ Gabriel grinned at the echo of his own phrase. Lord, Tamsyn married one rogue, I just hope for her sake she doesn’t take a fancy to this one... ‘There’s some kind of trouble and I haven’t got to the bottom of it yet, but until I do, there are two ladies of a certain age who would be better for some protection whether they want it or not.’
‘Hence our Irish friends?’ Gabe looked over his shoulder at the carriage with its incongruous load.
‘Exactly. I’ll just have a word with them, then we’ll go on down to the house. The ladies will offer you a bed, I have no doubt. You’d best accept unless you want to make your way back to Barnstaple today—there isn’t more than an alehouse for ten miles in any direction.’
He went up to the carriage, nodded to the coachman, and opened the door. The inside was filled with Gabe’s luggage and two very large Irishmen. ‘Good day to you, me lord!’ the black-haired one exclaimed. ‘And a pleasure it is to be seeing you again.’
‘Seamus.’ Cris nodded to his red-headed companion. ‘Patrick. Now listen. I am Mr Defoe—forget I ever had a title. I’ve a couple of very nice ladies who need an eye keeping on them, but they aren’t to know that. As far as they are concerned I’ve sent for a sedan chair for the one who can’t walk far and the two of you are here to train up a couple of likely local lads. And you’ll have trouble finding the right ones, if you catch my drift?’
Seamus cracked his knuckles and grinned, revealing a gap in his front teeth. ‘Someone causing them grief, eh? Don’t like bullies who upset nice old ladies, do we, Patrick? You can rely on us, Lord...Mr Defoe, sir. We’re doing very nicely with the bodyguarding business you helped us with, it’s a pleasure to take a job in the country for you, that it is.’
Patrick, a man of few words, grunted.
‘Unload the chair now,’ Cris decided. ‘Get it set up, then follow us down in ten minutes. You’ll be a surprise for the ladies.’
What they would make of two massive chairmen, Irish as most of the Bath chairmen were by long tradition, goodness knew. These two had waded into the action when Cris and Gabriel had found themselves cornered in a dark alleyway by a gang who did not take well to Gabe’s legendary game-winning skills with cards. When the dust had settled and the four of them had been binding up their injuries and drowning the bruises in brandy at the nearest inn, Cris had suggested they might find acting as bodyguards a profitable sideline. After he had put some business their way the two were building quite a reputation and they made no bones about expressing their gratitude.
* * *
‘Tamsyn, there is a carriage at the gate,’ Aunt Rosie called. ‘And a gentleman on a horse. Who on earth can it be?’
She jammed the rest of the flowers into the vase with more haste than care, whipped off her apron and threw open the front door. And there was Cris, who only ten minutes before had been upstairs while she had been filling vases at the foot of those stairs the entire time. She shot him a questioning glance as she approached, blinked at the sight of shirtsleeves and loose neckcloth, and blinked again when she saw the man dismounting from a raking bay horse. Presumably she was not dreaming and transported into some Minerva Press novel, so this was not a dashing gentleman highwayman. She took a deep, appreciative breath. Goodness, but he certainly looked like every fantasy of such a romantic character.
‘Mrs Perowne, may I introduce my friend, Mr Gabriel Stone.’ Cris gave her a very old-fashioned look as though he knew exactly what she thought of the newcomer. ‘I wrote to him on a business matter and did not make myself clear that posting the information would be sufficient.’
Mr Stone doffed his hat. ‘Mrs Perowne, my apologies for the intrusion. Just as soon as my coachman can work out how to turn the carriage on this track, we will be on our way.’
‘Mr Stone.’ She inclined her head in response to his half-bow. ‘Are you in haste, sir?’
‘No, ma’am, not at all.’
‘Then you must stay. If your man takes the carriage further down he can turn where the lane opens out to the beach. Then the stable yard is just up behind the house. Oh, I see Mr Defoe is already organising him.’
And Mr Defoe wants you to stay, now you are here. I wonder just what that matter of business is.
She turned towards the house, inviting the intriguing Mr Stone to follow her as Cris strode across the lawn to rejoin them.
‘If Miss Holt and Miss Pritchard are able to come to the door, I have a small gift for Miss Pritchard. I will go and fetch her a chair out to the porch.’ He was gone before she could ask what possible present could necessitate Aunt Rosie coming outside.
It took a few minutes for Michael to carry out a chair and for Aunt Rosie to be settled on it and introduced to Mr Stone. There was the sound of feet on the stones of the lane and then, completely incongruous in the wilds of the Devon coast, two burly men appeared carrying a sedan chair between them. Cris opened the gate and they marched across the lawn, deposited the chair in front of Aunt Rosie, opened the door between the shafts and whipped off their hats.
They were certainly an imposing pair in their dark-blue coats, black tricorns and sturdy boots. The sedan chair gleamed and the seat was deeply padded. ‘Would