The Rake's Bargain Page 3

  ‘It’s like offering an all-too-brief taste of a banquet,’ Gerald had once said to Deb. ‘But some day, when we get that theatre of our own, we’ll perform the whole play—and we’ll have all of London society at our feet!’

  But then Gerald died. Losing her mother at such a young age had been heartbreaking, but now Deb had to face life without her beloved stepfather, who had been her guide and her inspiration for as long as she could remember. Kneeling by his graveside the day after the funeral, she’d whispered aloud, ‘I can’t take charge of the Players, Gerald. I know it was your wish—but I’m only twenty and I’m too young. I can’t follow you. I simply cannot do it.’

  She’d tried to explain as much to the others later that evening, when the Players had gathered in a tavern to solemnly discuss their plans now that Gerald was gone. It was Francis, loyal Francis, who’d raised a cheer for her and called out, ‘Who else but an O’Hara should be in charge of us all?’

  And they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Lambeth Players had given her their trust and in return she was prepared to risk everything for them—it was as simple as that. She’d been truly touched by the loyalty of Francis and Luke in coming with her today to Hardgate Hall, obeying her orders even though Francis clearly had grave doubts.

  I’ve succeeded, she looked forward to telling him. I’ve succeeded.

  She quickened her pace as she realised that the trees were beginning to thin out a little. There they were, Luke and Francis, standing in the clearing with their backs to her, engrossed in conversation, while a little distance away the old mare and the two ponies gently grazed...

  Deb froze.

  Beside them was a horse she’d never seen before. A fine big bay, with a white blaze down his forehead. A horse of quality. She felt her heart-rate falter; then she caught sight of something that really made her blood freeze in her veins. In the centre of the clearing lay the prone figure of a man. His wrists and booted legs were bound with cord, and a white silk neckerchief—his own?—had been used to blindfold him. He wasn’t moving.

  Dear God, was he even breathing?

  Deb turned slowly to her two companions, who had seen her now and were hurrying towards her. ‘Luke, Francis. What on earth...?’

  ‘We got him, Miss Deb!’ cried Luke jubilantly. And Francis was nodding towards their captive. ‘We had to act quickly. You see, he was galloping along the track, making straight for Hardgate Hall. And we knew we had to do something, Deborah, or you would have run into him.’

  Deb looked at the bound, blindfolded man with a growing sense of—no other word for it—panic. ‘Who exactly do you think that man is?’ she breathed.

  ‘Why, he’s Hugh Palfreyman, of course!’ Luke delivered this news with an air of triumph.

  Deb gazed down at their captive and found herself speechless again. The man was around thirty, she guessed: lean, fit and long-limbed. Even though he lay sprawled and unconscious in the mud she could see for herself that he was dressed like a gentleman, a rich gentleman, in a heavy cambric greatcoat, handcrafted leather boots and a lawn shirt with lace ruffles at his wrists. His hat had fallen off and he had black hair, gleaming and thick. As for his face...

  She couldn’t see his eyes because of course he was blindfolded. But the rest of his features—his uncompromising jaw, his long nose, his firm mouth—were so downright arrogant that she felt her stomach lurch with renewed fear.

  ‘That man,’ she pronounced to Luke and Francis, ‘is not Hugh Palfreyman.’ Her every word was etched with a sincere and furious despair.

  Luke’s jaw dropped in youthful dismay. ‘But he must be, Miss Deb.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked with deceptive calm.

  ‘Because he was on Palfreyman’s horse!’ explained Luke. ‘Do you see it?’ He pointed. ‘Francis and I were admiring it only this morning in Oxford. A blacksmith was shoeing it and it took two lads to hold the beast steady. One of them told us afterwards whose it was...’

  His voice trailed away when he saw Deb’s expression. ‘And do you really, truly think, Luke, that there’s only one bay horse with a white blaze in all of Oxfordshire?’ Both of them stood silent; Deb pointed at the man wearily. ‘He is not Hugh Palfreyman. He’s nothing like Hugh Palfreyman. And anyway, what if he was? Since when have we been highway robbers? Why did you have to knock him out cold?’

  Francis looked affronted. ‘We only wanted to stop his horse and perhaps delay him a little in case he met you. But he was going at such a pace, and so—and so...’

  ‘He fell off with an almighty crash, Miss Deb,’ supplied Luke.

  Deb shuddered. ‘And then?’

  Francis took over the tale. ‘And then we thought we’d better blindfold him and tie him up, of course. Because we couldn’t let him see us when he came round, could we?’

  ‘If he comes round,’ said Deb. How could they? How could they have done something so foolhardy?

  Luke looked nervous now. ‘He’s still breathing and everything. We checked!’

  Deb sank to her knees beside the prone man and ran her hands swiftly over his arms and shoulders.

  As far as she could tell, he didn’t appear to be badly hurt. None of his limbs looked twisted or broken. There was no blood anywhere, and when she put her fingers to his wrist, his pulse was strong and even. But—oh, God, what would happen when he regained his senses and found himself trussed up tight as a turkey? And—who on earth was he?

  Feeling even more flustered after touching him—goodness, he was big, he was powerful—she reached gingerly into his coat pocket, where she found a gold fob watch on a chain. She turned it carefully in her fingers. It looked old and very valuable, and on the back was a faded inscription. She held it up to catch the murky daylight and read the name aloud: Damian Beaumaris.

  Whoever Damian Beaumaris might be, Deb knew with absolute certainty that they’d just made themselves a new and extremely dangerous enemy.

  * * *

  Beau was aware of aches and pains in every limb. His head hurt as if someone had swung a hammer at it. The last thing he remembered was riding through Ashendale Forest on Palfreyman’s horse, making good speed, until he’d spotted, too late, a length of cord stretched right across his path. And now he found that he was blindfolded, he was well and truly tied up, and he was lying on the cold, muddy ground.

  Muttered voices drifted across the clearing, and the owners of those voices sounded mighty worried. So they should be. Beau’s jaw was tightly set. Then he frowned again, because some other faint memory lingered in his mind: a memory of the lightest of hands fluttering over his clothing, a finger touching his wrist. He thought he’d inhaled the delicate scent of lemons, and remembered a woman’s soft hair brush his cheek...

  And he needed to pull his thoroughly scattered wits together this minute—because the voices were moving closer. He lay very still, assessing his predicament—bound, blindfolded and half-stunned—not good. His borrowed horse had been deliberately tripped up, and Beau had been thrown; but seconds before he fell, he’d glimpsed two men peering at him from the undergrowth—a middle-aged man in a scruffy red coat and black hat, and a callow fair-haired youth. It must be one of that pair of scoundrels—he guessed the older one—whom he heard now, muttering anxiously, ‘But that bay horse. We really thought it was Palfreyman’s, you see.’

  That was interesting enough; but the next voice Beau heard set his senses into full alert. Because it belonged to a girl, and she sounded very, very anxious—with good reason, Beau reflected grimly. ‘Francis Calladine,’ she declared, ‘if I hear your excuses repeated once more, I swear I’ll tie you up with your own ropes. This man is not Palfreyman. His name is Damian Beaumaris. And what, in heaven’s name, are we to do with him?’

  A case of mistaken identity, then—they’d thought he was Palfreyman, who it appeared was no friend of theirs. One thing was for c
ertain—he was, at the moment, completely in their power. But Beau did not intend that particular circumstance to last for much longer.

  He heard the voice of the older man again—he sounded just as worried as the girl. ‘Perhaps we should untie him and leave quickly, Deborah. When he comes round, he’ll just imagine he was thrown by accident. He won’t even know he was our prisoner.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t come round?’ The girl again—Deborah. Beau envisaged his trio of captors scratching their heads. ‘What if he’s truly hurt, Francis?’ she went on. ‘What if we leave him here and—he doesn’t recover?’

  In the silence that ensued, Beau found himself occupied by a thought that had been forming in his mind since the moment he heard the girl’s voice.

  Most of the females who travelled with bands of highway robbers were as rough as their menfolk. But something wasn’t quite right about this one. She spoke well. She had an educated voice... He stirred as far as his bonds would allow, and let out a slight groan. Almost immediately, as he’d hoped, he heard the girl gasping, ‘Oh, no. Did you hear that? He is in pain!’ There was a rustle of clothes close to his ear, and once more he inhaled the faint lemon scent of soap and freshly washed hair as the girl bent down and placed her hand on his forehead; a cool, tender hand...

  She’ll be ugly as sin, he warned himself. She was bound to be a painted, snaggle-toothed whore who had been bedded by the lot of them. Yet she spoke in a way that would be more at home in the drawing rooms of London than amongst a nest of vagabonds. He chided himself mentally. Whatever she was up to, no female was going to get the better of him. He lay very still, feigning unconsciousness once more.

  ‘We really should be off.’ The older man’s voice was taut with anxiety. ‘We could perhaps ride back to the nearest inn and mention that we glimpsed a stray horse in the forest. Then they would send someone out to investigate...’

  ‘We cannot leave him while he’s unconscious!’ The girl’s voice was authoritative. ‘This is my plan, Francis. I’m going to loosen our prisoner’s ropes and wait for him to regain his senses. As soon as he starts to do so, and we can be sure that he’s going to be all right, we’ll ride off as quickly as we can.’

  ‘But what if he gets on his horse and gallops after us?’ This was the younger lad speaking. ‘That bay of his could catch ours in no time!’

  The girl had an answer for that as well. ‘We’ll lead his horse with us—just for a half a mile or so. Francis, can you go and see to the horses now? And, Luke, it’s really important that you remove every trace of our stay here—for example, the remains of that campfire you and Francis lit over there.’

  Luke said suddenly, ‘I left some of my markers in case you had trouble finding us, Miss Deb.’

  Deb frowned. ‘Markers?’

  ‘The sign for the Lambeth Players,’ explained Luke. ‘You know—the initials L and P, made with twigs. I made a trail, from the track to this clearing. I was only trying to help!’

  ‘You idiot, Luke,’ said Francis.

  ‘You’d better go and remove them,’ said Deb in exasperation. Luke and his games. ‘Every single one. And as soon as you’ve checked round everywhere, we’ll leave—but only when I’m sure this man is going to be all right, do you understand?’

  * * *

  They left, and Deb walked slowly towards their prisoner. Only now that Luke and Francis were out of sight did she feel that she could allow herself to give way to true, sick anxiety.

  She dropped to her knees at the man’s side, noting that he lay as still as ever in his bonds apart from the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest—thank God he was still breathing steadily. She rapidly tried to summarise what she knew about him, which wasn’t a great deal, except that his name was Damian Beaumaris, and he was rich—she could tell that just at a glance, not only because of his fine attire and gold pocket watch, but because of that indefinable air of arrogance the rich had, yes, even when they were tied up on the ground and unconscious.

  Luke and Francis had only been trying to help her, she reminded herself rather desperately. And they’d been right, in that if he had been Palfreyman, and had met her climbing back over his boundary wall, he would have seized her on the spot, found the books on her, and her plan would have been ruined. She could have been in dire trouble indeed...

  And wasn’t she now?

  Deb tried her best to control her panicking thoughts. At least Mr Beaumaris was alive, and had no idea who they were. And thank goodness there was no sign of blood. But she could see quite a lot else about him—a bit too much, unfortunately, for his expensive riding coat had fallen right back, and beneath his white shirt and buckskin breeches she couldn’t help but note that he displayed a formidably muscled body. Her eyes were reluctantly dragged again and again to that strong, square jaw already dark with stubble, and she found herself thinking that Peggy Daniels, the pretty actress who played most of the heroines for the Lambeth Players, would have been in raptures over him. ‘Now, there’s a fine figure of a man,’ she would have exclaimed.

  Deb sighed, and prepared to put his gold watch back in his pocket; but just at that moment Mr Beaumaris groaned, and she almost shot into the air.

  ‘My God,’ he rasped. ‘My God, whoever you are, I’ll see the lot of you in Newgate for this.’

  Quickly Deb shoved his watch in her own pocket and moistened her dry lips. Thank goodness he was still blindfolded. ‘My friends made a mistake, Mr Beaumaris.’ She found herself defiantly tilting her chin, as if he could see her. ‘You see, they thought you were someone else. Someone who’s done us a great deal of harm. That was why they tied you up, but it was all an accident, I do assure you, sir—’

  ‘Accident! Now, there’s a Banbury tale,’ he exploded. ‘Your friends tied a cord across the path.’

  He heard her catch her breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘Truly sorry you were hurt. And please stay still, Mr Beaumaris, there’s really no point in trying to fight your bonds. I’ll set you free in good time, you have my word on it.’

  ‘Your word? You expect me to believe your promises?’

  ‘It would be as well for you,’ she said in her sweet clear voice, ‘if you did.’

  Who the deuce was she? Beau wondered anew. She sounded well educated—and yet she was clearly in charge of the men who’d landed him in this mess. He’d heard them calling themselves the Lambeth Players, but what kind of vagabonds could they be? Two rogues and a girl... Cursing his blindfold, he wished he could cure himself of the delusion that this little witch actually sounded rather exquisite.

  ‘You claim I was captured by mistake,’ he said flatly. ‘Perhaps you don’t mind telling me how you know my name?’

  She said in a very small voice, ‘I found your watch.’

  ‘You rifled my pockets.’

  ‘Only to find out who you were!’ She’d rallied now.

  ‘And now you know,’ Beau said. ‘But I’ll give you a warning. If you’re planning on demanding a ransom, don’t waste your time. Because if anything happens to me, you’ll not be able to find a safe hiding place in the entire realm.’

  There was a brief silence, then he heard her say quietly, ‘I suppose that’s what happens, when you’re rich and important. You matter. You go through life issuing threats and never listening to what other people are wanting to tell you. Not even trying to understand.’

  Beau found himself frowning at the intensity of her words. Then he froze again—because he felt small cool fingers fluttering around his shirt and his greatcoat, and he swore under his breath because his body was disconcertingly aware that this young, sweet-scented female was far too close for comfort. Deborah, they’d called her. Or Miss Deb. She’ll be a pock-marked Jezebel, he reminded himself. She couldn’t be anything else, living the life she must lead.

  ‘There,’ she announced crisply. ‘Yo
ur watch is back in your coat pocket, Mr Beaumaris. Let me repeat that we are not thieves. And no one regrets this incident more than I do, believe me.’

  He could almost have been amused. ‘So that’s it, is it? You offer your sincerest apologies on behalf of your two henchmen, and you expect me to forget this whole business?’

  ‘That’s more or less it. But I have to ask you a question first, Mr Beaumaris. Are you a man who can be trusted to keep his word?’

  What sheer, incredible insolence! He clenched his teeth. ‘Most would say so, yes. But let me give you a warning. I assume you’re going to ask me to promise some kind of clemency—but I don’t take kindly to highway robbery. And I’m not going to enter into any kind of negotiation until you unfasten these damned ropes.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid we’re at stalemate, Mr Beaumaris,’ she answered calmly. ‘You may as well know that I have a knife—a very sharp knife—in my hand, and I can free you in moments. But before I do so, I want you to swear not to set the law on my friends.’

  Beau really didn’t know if she was pretending to be innocent, or stupid, or both. Aloud he drawled, ‘You’re joking, I hope.’

  ‘I’m hoping you are willing to accept that my men made a genuine mistake. Otherwise...’

  Again she paused, and he tried to picture her face.

  ‘I really am going to have to leave you tied up here in the woods,’ she went on, ‘until someone finds you. And I cannot imagine that a gentleman accustomed to life’s comforts as you must be would relish the prospect of being out here as darkness falls. The woods can get extremely cold and damp at night, even in June. Well? Do you want me to loosen your bonds or not?’

  She sounded almost cheerful.

  Beau was usually calm in the face of danger, but this was an altogether different kind of peril; indeed, he was hard put not to flinch as she leaned close and ran her hands over the ropes at his wrists. Damn it, could he feel a few soft strands of her hair brushing against his forehead? What colour was it—black, brown, or a brassy blonde? What colour were her eyes? Was she tall and slender, or short and plump—and why in God’s name was he even bothering to think of such absurd trivialities?