Stephanie Laurens - Beyond Seduction

Gervase stood in the doorway and considered the sight. She’d blown out the candle but faint light washed the room; by its soft glow he could see that the tension of the day, the tightness about her eyes and lips, had faded.

The observation calmed some restless, primal part of him. He considered the bed-its less-than-adequate width-then with an inward sigh turned away. Shutting the door silently, he made for the bedchamber across the landing.

Gasthorpe had served them tea and crumpets in the library while their rooms were being prepared. When Madeline had retired, Gervase had remained to write notes-calls to action-only two, so it hadn’t taken long.

Gasthorpe had verified that of all the club’s members, only Christian Allardyce was still in town-the others had retired to their country estates for the summer and weren’t expected to reappear in London, at least not within the next few days.

Ben’s fate would be sealed by then; they’d either find him within the first two days, or they likely never would.

Going into his room, closing the door, Gervase forcefully put that thought out of his mind, and concentrated, instead, on how to locate Ben.

Shrugging off his coat, unbuttoning his cuffs, he grimaced. Gasthorpe had his two notes; they’d be delivered with the dawn. The only thing left that he, Gervase, could presently do to improve their chances of finding Ben was to pray that the second gentleman he’d informed hadn’t yet left London.

As Gervase had expected, Christian was the first to answer his summons. Gasthorpe roused him at nine o’clock with the news that the marquess had arrived and was waiting for him at the breakfast table.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gervase splashed water over his face, then swiftly shaved and dressed, giving thanks for the marvel that was Gasthorpe; aside from providing the razor, a newly purchased brush, cravat, and shirt, the majordomo had worked wonders with his travel-worn coat and breeches and his boots shone. At least he no longer looked like he’d just ridden in from the Russian Steppes.

Exiting his room, he paused, considering the door across the landing. Crossing silently to it, he opened it and looked in; Madeline was still sound asleep, the covers over her shoulder, her hair a red-gold mane spread across the pillow. Contradictory impulses clashed; one part of him wanted to leave her there, recuperating in peace, yet she would expect to be included in any councils concerning Ben’s fate, and had every right to be present.

Inwardly sighing, he crossed soft-footed to the bed. Brushing back her hair, he bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. As she roused, murmured, then turned to him, he trailed his lips across to meet hers. A gentle, undemanding kiss. Then he lifted his head, watched her blink awake.

She focused on him, then glanced around. “Oh.” Shuffling onto one elbow, she looked at the window. “What’s the time?”

“Nine o’clock. Christian Allardyce is downstairs at the breakfast table. Join us when you’re ready.”

“Yes, of course.” She started struggling up.

He turned to the door, and discovered a little maid hovering, hand raised, frozen; she’d been about to knock, then had seen him.

He smiled, nodded the maid in, saying to Madeline as he continued to the door, “Assistance has arrived. She’s even brought a fresh gown.”

“What…?”

Reaching the door, he glanced back to find Madeline staring in disbelief at the maid, who was carrying not only a gown but linen, brushes and pins.

Shutting her open mouth, Madeline looked at him as if for explanation.

“The wonders of Gasthorpe.” With a grin, he saluted her and left, closing the door.

He sobered as he went down the stairs.

Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, was sitting at one end of the breakfast table attending to a sizable serving of ham and eggs. He looked up as Gervase entered. “Excellent. I’m all agog. I was going to come up and demand instant explanations, but Gasthorpe warned me there was a lady on the premises.” Christian raised his brows. “So what’s afoot?”

The limpid innocence in Christian’s gray eyes did nothing to hide his avid curiosity, or his suspicions. Gervase held his gaze for an instant, then grimaced and headed for the sideboard. “I’m going to marry her, but for God’s sake don’t mention it. She hasn’t yet agreed.”

“Ah-you’re at that stage.” Returning his attention to his plate, Christian said, “So what’s brought you both here, in something of a lather, as I heard it-and what is it you want my assistance with?”

His plate piled high with ham, sausages and two eggs, Gervase sat in the chair next to Christian, and told him.

Simply, concisely, nothing of substance held back.

By the time he’d finished, Christian was frowning. Mopping up the last of his egg with a crust of toast, he popped it into his mouth, chewed; eyes narrowed, gaze distant, he said, “So you think this ploy-bringing the boy to London-is a ruse to get you both out of Cornwall?”

Gervase nodded. “Normally Madeline acts as her fifteen-year-old brother’s surrogate-she’s held the reins of the position for so long, and so well, she’s the de facto Gascoigne and everyone in the neighborhood looks to her for leadership, even more so given I haven’t been there.”

Christian’s brows rose. “She sounds like an unusual lady.”

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Gervase said, “which is why this villain wanted us both here in London. With both of us gone, there’s no one on the peninsula with the authority, the position or the experience to lead. There are only minor gentry on the peninsula itself, a few minor barons north of the estuary, but even if they were roused to action, by they time they came to investigate a stranger with a crowd of bully boys digging up a beach, it would all be over, the villain long gone.”

He paused, then grinned, not humorously. “Of course, our villain didn’t know Charles was lurking-I’ve left him and Penelope at the castle, keeping watch.”

“So when our villain arrives…” Christian pulled a face, the equivalent of male pouting. “I don’t know about you, but I have a deep-seated aversion to letting St. Austell have all the fun.”

“Indeed. Which is another excellent reason for finding Ben with all possible speed-not that we need another reason, but still-so we can race down to Cornwall and be in at the end ourselves.”

“Not another reason,” Christian said. “A carrot. Dealing with the villain will be our reward for finding Ben quickly.”

Senses pricking, Gervase looked up and saw Madeline framed in the doorway. He smiled and rose. “There you are-come and join us.”

“Thank you.” Madeline smiled warmly, her heart unexpectedly aglow. She’d come downstairs overwhelmed by concern and incipient panic, then she’d heard Gervase’s words, his description of her, his and his colleague’s clear confidence that they would find Ben and deal with the villain; she’d drawn breath, felt their implied assurance sink in, felt their confidence buoy and steady her. Walking into the room, she transferred her gaze to the other gentleman, who had smoothly risen to his feet.

“Dearne, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed, then smiled engagingly. “But I hope you’ll call me Christian.”

There was something in his manner-a gentle air, an invitation to laugh at all and everything-that had her smiling easily in return. She inclined her head. “Madeline, please.” She sat in the chair Gervase held for her, glanced around to see him head for the sideboard-decided to let him feed her and turned her attention to his friend. “I understand you’re another member of this rather strange club.”

“Indeed. I won’t bore you with the details of its founding, but it has, I would say, served its purpose well.” He smiled at her in a way that made her wonder just what the true purpose of the club was.

Before she could think of how to ask, Gervase returned to the table. “I’ve rung for tea.” He set a plate piled with kedgeree, ham and a fat juicy kipper before her.

She looked at it, and wondered when she’d mentioned she loved nice kippers; she couldn’t recall ever doing so, so how had he guessed? Inwardly shrugging, she murmured her thanks, picked up her knife and fork, and sampled the kedgeree. It was delicious-and she realized she was starving.

Accustomed to the table habits of males, she barely noticed the silence that enveloped the table. Gervase was still absorbed with his sausages, while Christian sat back and sipped coffee with the air of a man satisfactorily replete.

From under her lashes, she studied him, curious to observe another of Gervase’s cronies. Like Gervase and Charles, Christian had much the same build; she recalled Gervase had originally been in the guards, and suspected the same held true of the others-they all had the classic guardsmen build, that of tall, broad-shouldered, saber-swinging horsemen.

As for the rest…gray eyes, a certain self-deprecating streak, as if he were cynically amused with himself, but underneath she could readily see the same reliably ruthless strength she’d come to value in Gervase, that unswerving commitment to defending and protecting, be it the weak, the helpless, their friends, their family or their country.

It was all the same to them; it was simply who they were.

And nothing would ever change them.

Nothing would ever soften them.

To her mind, that was as it should be; the thought was more comfort than threat.

She forked up the last tiny piece of kipper just as Gervase pushed away his plate. She looked up and smiled as Gasthorpe poured tea for her; she patted her lips with her napkin, picked up the delicate cup and sipped-and nearly closed her eyes and sighed.

She glanced around, but Gasthorpe had gone. She turned to Gervase and Christian. “I don’t know where you found him, but Gasthorpe is a treasure. I don’t know how he managed it, but he found this gown.” She broke off to explain to Christian that they’d set out on their pursuit without baggage. She glanced again at the gown. “He said it belonged to the lady who used to live next door-he borrowed a maid from there for me, and to adjust the size and let down the hem.”