Chapter 3

“Wherein she who sups with the devil should have a long spoon, and her wits about her.”

21 st October 1820.

It was worse than she’d thought. The surly servant who’d opened the door to her had gawped as though he’d never seen a lady before, though Bea supposed it was hardly a normal circumstance so perhaps he could be forgiven. The house was appalling. Whilst it might look romantic and beautiful from a distance, upon entering the stench of damp and mildew was overpowering. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings and dust had collected in every corner. As Bea waited in the pitch dark for the servant to enquire if his master was at home—apparently there were no other candles—something scurried over her foot, and she almost changed her mind. Perhaps being destitute in London would not be so bad.

“Don’t be a ninny,” she scolded herself crossly.

There was nothing here a good many servants and a great deal of money could not remedy and, once she was married, she would have a great deal of money which would hire a good many servants. The house could be fixed. The question was, could she manage its master?

“This way, ma’am,” the servant said, reappearing in the hallway.

“Miss Beatrice Huntingdon,” she told him. The man’s eyes widened, glittering with astonishment in the light of the candle he held.

“Right you are,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t certain he believed her. Well, it did seem improbable that she was doing such a thing, even to her.

She followed him down the gloomy corridor to a door at the far end. A faint glow was visible from the open doorway, and she hesitated as the servant announced her. Well, here she was, taking her fate into her own hands. The phrase ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ echoed unpleasantly in her mind, but she took a deep breath and entered the room, and almost ran straight out again.

The man looked every bit the devil she had heard him to be. He lounged in a large wingback chair, apparently at his ease. She thought perhaps his hair was blond, though it was hard to tell by firelight. Certainly, it was a light shade and far longer than was fashionable. The sluggish fire flickered, a few desultory flames casting the man’s face into shadow and highlighting his harsh features. She had heard tell of Lord Rutherford’s handsome face and form, yet this man was not precisely handsome. At least, he was , but that was not the half of it. There was something else, something that made his presence fill the room. Compelling. The word forced itself into her mind as she stared at him, into eyes that she could not read but that gazed upon her as if they could decipher her every thought without even trying. Bea swallowed and, despite the bizarre nature of the situation, remembered her manners. She sank into a graceful curtsey.

“My lord,” she said politely. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Rutherford stared at her for a moment, and then threw back his head and laughed.

Bea glanced at the servant, who crossed his massive arms and rolled his eyes heavenwards.

“My lord? Are… Are you quite well?” she asked, wondering if perhaps he was not entirely sane. It would hardly be surprising after the life he’d led. Perhaps he was poxed, she thought uncomfortably. That would not be a pleasant circumstance.

Rutherford wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sat up… and only then did she see the pistol in his hand. Giving a gasp of alarm, Bea turned and would have fled, but the servant caught hold of her arm. She screamed, and the man flinched, releasing her at once.

“Miss Huntingdon!”

She hesitated, turning once more at the sound of a voice that was at once deep and cultured and sounded remarkably sane. She saw his lordship had got to his feet and set the gun down. He held out his hands to her, showing his apparent harmlessness. Bea almost snorted; she had never seen a man less likely to be described as harmless.

“I beg your pardon for startling you,” Lord Rutherford said apologetically. “I do not often receive visitors here, and after recent events, I suspected the visit might be, er… bad for my health.”

“Bad for your health?” she repeated in confusion, her mouth falling open in shock as she took his meaning. “You thought I… I was here to murder you?”

He shrugged, and then winced, his hand going to his shoulder. “It did not seem an entirely unlikely assumption,” he replied, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “However, I am delighted to have been proven wrong in such a charming manner. Won’t you please be seated? John, might you be able to bring some tea?”

“Tea?” the big man repeated and then gave a bark of laughter. “No, my lord.”

“Ah,” Rutherford replied, his expression rueful. “I beg your pardon, miss. You find me in somewhat straightened circumstances. What can we offer the lady, John?” he demanded, an edge to his voice.

The servant shrugged and Bea stared, astonished at the way the man spoke to his master. “There’s the sherry, or hot water and honey. Best I can do,” he replied.

“Miss Huntingdon?” Rutherford enquired.

Bea started. She felt such a profound sense of unreality she almost believed herself watching some peculiar theatrical. Reminding herself sternly that this was not only real, but her life was at stake, she rallied. “Sherry,” she replied firmly, though she had never much liked the drink, she hoped it might give her a little courage.

“Sherry for the lady, John,” Rutherford said, before sitting once more. “I beg you will forgive my rudeness, but I have been rather unwell and have not the energy to stand for long.”

“It’s of no matter, getting shot must take it out of one, I imagine,” Bea replied, accepting a small glass of sherry from the servant.

Rutherford’s eyes glittered, making her wish she had not been quite so candid. She had not meant to draw attention to his discomfort, but then again it was all over the scandal sheets and hard to miss. There was no point in pretending he was anything other than a rogue.

“You’re a plain-speaking chit, I’ll give you that,” he said dryly, gesturing to his manservant to leave them. “Bold as brass too, to come here at this hour, all alone.”

“My maid will be here shortly,” Bea said, putting up her chin and wishing fervently that Rachel would arrive that minute. She had taken so long to find the blasted house she’d been certain the maid would be here before she was. She could only imagine Rachel had endured difficulties of her own. “I am no chit, and I am not so much bold as desperate. You surely cannot believe I would be here if I had any other choice.”

He gave a bark of laughter at that, his lip curling unpleasantly. “Oh, that much I certainly believe. I am hardly knight in shining armour material, my sweet, so if you’re hoping to find one, I suggest you leave before anyone sees you here and you are entirely ruined.”

“I am not your ‘sweet,’ Lord Rutherford,” Bea said, fighting to remain calm. “Indeed, I am not sweet at all but—”

“Oh, now I cannot have that,” his lordship replied, his voice low and darkly amused. “You are not pretty in the common way, I’ll grant you, but quite delicious all the same.”

Bea glared at him, and he bared his teeth in return; a grin she supposed, though there seemed little humour in it. “I believe you are purposely trying to put me out of countenance,” she said crossly.

He chuckled. “Why, of course I am. I am afraid if you were hoping for a seduction you will have to wait a day or two for, as I mentioned, my energy is—”

“My lord!” Bea exclaimed, surging to her feet. “You do not strike me as a stupid man, merely an indolent and immoral one, so kindly stop playing games. I have a reason for being here and that reason will be of great value to you if you will only sit and listen like a gentleman instead of pretending to flirt and leer at me when you are clearly too ill to do anything other than put me to the blush.”

He stared at her whilst the colour in her cheeks burned hot, and then a smile curved over his wicked mouth. He clapped slowly, his glittering eyes fixed on her face, regarding her with approval. “My, my, the chit has spirit. I’m impressed, Miss Huntingdon.”

“I am overwhelmed by your approval,” Bea retorted and then wished the words unsaid.

She needed this man to marry her and, whilst he was obviously barely a step away from destitution, men could be stubborn devils. She needed to charm him if she was going to get his agreement to her demands.

“I should think you are,” he replied, wilfully ignoring her sarcasm. “Are you even out yet?” he added, peering at her.

“I came out three years ago but have been in mourning for my father for the past eighteen months.”

Strangely, he stilled at her words, some emotion she could not read flickering in his eyes, there and gone. He watched her closely for a moment before sitting back in his chair. She did not miss the tightening around his mouth at the movement and guessed it had pained him.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Bea was somewhat surprised by his words, soft-spoken and sincere as they sounded.

“Thank you,” she replied, fighting a sudden urge to weep. She swallowed hard and put up her chin. “It has been a rather… trying time,” she said, her voice quavering with emotion.

Though the urge to cry was hard to fight, she swallowed down the emotion, tucking it away until she was alone. A trying time . Her words echoed back to her, such an understatement she almost laughed. She had gone from being happy and safe to finding herself at the mercy of a man good society had shunned for his wickedness.

He remained silent, and his consideration surprised her, giving her time to collect herself before she spoke again. When she did, her voice was steady. She had no other options, so she had resolved to do what she must.

“I have a proposal for you, Lord Rutherford,” she said, holding his gaze.

One elegant eyebrow arched. “How intriguing,” he murmured, watching her intently.

His attention, focused solely upon her, had an unnerving quality. She instinctively felt it would be difficult to get anything past this man. He was supposed to be a wicked rogue who lived a life of debauchery, but no one ever said he was stupid. Indeed, he was known for being charming, witty and fashionable, an attractive combination that allowed the ton to tolerate him even when he was desperately scandalous. Intelligence glimmered in his eyes, and she knew she must keep her wits about her whilst they bargained, or she would find herself in greater trouble than she was already.

“I require a husband,” she said baldly.

His expression would have been amusing if she had not been in such dire straits. She wondered if anyone had ever shocked him before, this jaded man who had spent the better part of his life immersed in depravity.

“If this is some bizarre jest, I do not find it amusing,” he replied dryly, any humour or goodwill he had shown suddenly disappearing. He looked at once every bit the devil he was purported to be, his harsh features set in hard lines. Bea shivered.

“It is no jest, but my life. I said I was desperate, did I not?” she replied, trying to keep that same desperation from her voice.

“You did,” he admitted, curiosity replacing the displeasure that had chilled her to the bone. “Go on,” he added, with a negligent wave of his hand.

“After my father died, I was sent to my uncle, who is also my guardian. My father was a wealthy man, and he left the bulk of his fortune to me. I cannot access that money without my uncle’s permission, nor he without mine. However, the money becomes entirely mine on the event of my marriage. My uncle has been trying to force me into marriage in order to get his hands on that money. Until now I have refused, and he has ranted and raged but has done nothing to force my hand.”

“But the money would then belong to your husband. He would have no claim on it, so how would that benefit him?” Lord Rutherford asked with interest.

“My uncle is not a good man, my lord. He enjoys wielding power over those weaker than himself. I have come to believe he uses blackmail, too. He chose men he knew he could control. This evening my uncle presented me with my husband-to-be. I was given no choice in the matter. Instead, he dismissed the staff and intended to leave tomorrow morning with his daughter, leaving me in a locked room. He gave that disgusting man the power to keep me there until I consented to be his wife. I do not believe I need to illustrate the methods he intended to use to force my hand,” she added, her stomach churning at the memory.

Rutherford had gone very still, though he said nothing.

“Who is your uncle? And who is this delightful bridegroom you have managed to elude?”

“My uncle is Charles Huntingdon, now Viscount Worth, since he inherited my father’s title. The vile man he wished me to marry I have never met before but called himself Mr Runcible.”

To her surprise, Lord Rutherford surged to his feet. “Arnold Runcible?”

Bea nodded, taken aback by the fury in his voice. He stared at her and then turned to gaze down into the meagre fire. His fists were clenched.

“Y-You know Mr Runcible?” she asked cautiously, wondering at his anger, for surely a man of his appetites and reputation would care little for the way she had been treated.

“We have met,” he said darkly. “And now I understand your desperation. How did you manage to escape a locked room?”

“I climbed out of the window,” Bea said, putting up her chin.

He turned and stared at her, and Bea felt her colour rise under his scrutiny.

“Well, well, you really are tougher than you look, Miss Huntingdon. I congratulate you on escaping a plot nefarious enough for any Gothic novel. Perhaps you should write one about your adventure. It would be terrific success, especially the part where the plucky heroine throws herself upon the mercy of the wicked libertine.”

Bea gasped and then got to her feet, rigid with fury and indignation. “If all you can think to say it to mock me for—”

“Hush, pet,” he said gently, reaching out a hand and touching her cheek.

Bea froze, startled into immobility. His fingers were light upon her cheek, a barely there caress that nonetheless she felt all the way to her toes like an electric shock. Her breath hitched, and she took a step back, leaving his hand suspended in midair. Lord Rutherford was staring at his hand with a puzzled expression, and she wondered if he had felt the strange sensation too, but he shook it off and returned his attention to her.

“Forgive me. I was only funning and meant no offense. Truly, I am impressed by your courage, not only in escaping your fate, but in coming to me, of all people. Surely you must fear I will be no better than your Mr Runcible?”

Bea regarded him warily, but she felt his words were sincere. Of course, she would be a complete imbecile to trust him an inch, but she was tired and frightened, and he had the means to help her if he chose to do so. She had very little choice remaining.

“I do, but at least the sight of you does not make my flesh creep and my stomach roil,” she said frankly.

He laughed at that, a surprisingly bitter sound. “That is something,” he agreed, a sardonic curl to his lips.

Bea wondered if she’d offended him, but he turned away from her and sat down again, gesturing for her to do likewise.

“So, you are proposing I marry you, give you the protection of my name, and I get all the lovely money.”

“No,” she said, glaring at him. “And if you think I’m that much of a ninny, you have a good deal to learn about me.”

“Oh, I didn’t think it,” he replied, that mocking smile still firmly in place. “Not for a moment. So, my pet, what do you propose?”

“A marriage of convenience. We will split the money, fifty-fifty, then you will be free to carry on your life as you see fit, and I shall do the same.”

“And how do you see fit?” he asked curiously.

Bea shrugged. “I really have not had time to consider,” she admitted. “I always assumed I would marry and have a home, a family, but—” She closed her mouth, annoyed at how wistful the words had sounded. There was no point in crying over spilt milk.

There was a pause and then Lord Rutherford spoke again. “You could still have those things.”

Bea gaped. “With you?”

Belatedly, she realised how appallingly rude she’d been, though she did not think she could be blamed for her outburst. The idea of Lord Rutherford being a husband and father was beyond ludicrous. He said nothing, his expression unreadable, but she felt suddenly uncomfortable and wished the words unsaid.

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “No, Miss Huntingdon, I only meant that you could make Chalfont House your home, and that… you could still have the children you wish for. I would not interfere in the raising of them, of course.”

Bea swallowed. Chalfont House was falling down around his ears, and yet she had admired its beauty from afar. She could restore it to what it had once been. It would be a project worthy of her ambition. That she might live here with her children was an idea that made something inside her ache with longing. Whilst she had loved her father dearly, she had always been rather lonely and had longed for siblings. She had always dreamed she would have a large family of her own. Of course, she had also dreamed of having a husband who loved and respected her, but perhaps half a loaf was better than none. To get those children, Lord Rutherford would have to be her husband in truth, however, not just in name only. Her cheeks blazed at the idea of getting into bed with the man she knew to be a rake and a scoundrel, and she dared a glance up at him.

For all his lazy sprawl in the chair opposite, he was watching her intently, like a cat eyeing a mouse from the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Bea swallowed.

“For the moment, a marriage in name only is my requirement. Perhaps… Perhaps in the future we might revisit the conversation.”

He inclined his head, apparently accepting this. Bea frowned, somewhat disgruntled. She had assumed he might at least try to make it a condition of the marriage. Not that she wanted to be intimate with him, but that a man of his reputation would not try to get her into bed was somewhat lowering. Telling herself to be careful what she wished for, she put her wounded pride away and carried on.

“I will need you to set up a bank account in my name and have papers drawn up that give me the legal right to the money, so that you cannot renege on the agreement once I am your wife,” she stated.

“Don’t you trust me, pet?” he drawled, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“No,” she replied.

He laughed at that, and it sounded like a genuine laugh. It was a good sound, deep and rumbling, and she could not help but smile in return.

“You can hardly expect me to,” she pointed out.

“You would be the biggest fool on earth to do so,” he agreed solemnly. “Very well, suppose I agree to your proposal. You tell me your father was wealthy, but I have no figure to justify this claim. Your idea of wealth and mine may not tally.”

Bea glared at him. “I do not have the precise figure as my uncle has kept the information from me, but you may call upon Messrs Thornton and Cranbrook, who have always taken care of my father’s account, and will continue to do so for me. If you ask for Mr Thornton, he is an old family friend and knows of my circumstances, for I wrote to tell him of my predicament, not that he could help me. To answer your question, however, my father used to keep me appraised of his financial dealings and I often helped him with his accounts. I believe the sum to be in the region of three hundred thousand pounds.”

There was a stunned silence. Lord Rutherford stared at her, apparently dumbfounded.

“Three hundred thousand pounds?” he repeated cautiously.

Bea nodded.

“Three hundred thousand pounds?” he said again, sounding a little winded.

“Yes, three hundred thousand pounds!” Bea said impatiently, rolling her eyes at him. “I was not exaggerating his wealth, sir. There are other investments I do not altogether understand but I know neither you nor I will be able to touch the money for some years, but I will divide them also fifty-fifty.”

He gazed at her, his face entirely blank. Bea wondered if he was breathing.

“John!” Bea almost leapt from her skin as Rutherford bellowed for his servant. He flew from his chair and crossed the room, pulling the door open. “John!”

“Christ, where’s the fire?” John’s voice demanded from the doorway. “I’ve been trying to keep this interfering— Oi! You can’t just—”

Bea gave a little cry of relief as Rachel pushed past Lord Rutherford without a by-your-leave and hurried to her. “Miss! Oh, that wretched man would not let me come to you. Are you well? Did he hurt you? He didn’t—?”

“I’m quite well, Rachel, calm yourself. Lord Rutherford has treated me perfectly well, considering the hour I burst in upon him.”

Rachel gave a sniff, apparently finding this hard to believe. “This place is a disgrace,” she said, pulling a face as she looked around the room.

“Hush,” Bea said quietly, and crossed the room to where Lord Rutherford was speaking urgently to his servant.

“Bugger me,” the man said in awe, turning to stare at Bea in astonishment. He turned back to his master and gave a bark of laughter, slapping Lord Rutherford on the back. The man paled and grabbed at his shoulder. “The luck of the devil, I always said it. Blow me if good fortune didn’t land in your lap after all.”

Lord Rutherford smiled. “Not quite in my lap, John,” he qualified, turning to look at Bea, a devilish glint in his eyes. “But the night is young yet.”

Rachel bustled up, inserting herself between Bea and Lord Rutherford. “We’ll have none of that talk, my lord,” she said, glaring at him. “My young lady is just that, a lady. She’s been raised proper and kept safe from the likes of you. I’ll not have her—”

“Rachel!” Bea said, tugging at the woman’s arm. She was beyond touched that Rachel would defend her so fiercely, but she did not wish for Lord Rutherford to take her maid in dislike and make getting rid of her a part of the bargain. “That will do. Lord Rutherford and I have reached an agreement.”

“Oh, aye?” Rachel said sceptically.

“Yes, indeed. Have we not, Lord Rutherford?”

Rutherford turned and regarded her and then stepped closer, holding out his hand to her. Bea hesitated before putting her hand in his. He wore no gloves and warmth seeped through the thin leather of her own, warming her and making her shiver all at once.

“We have, Miss Huntingdon. I shall visit your Mr Thornton to make the arrangements. We shall split your funds, fifty-fifty. I shall put the required amount in a bank account in your name and have papers drawn that make it yours and yours alone, to do with as you wish. You shall have the protection of my name, and my person if the need arises, and make Chalfont your home for as long as you wish. We shall have a marriage in name only.” He lowered his voice, holding her gaze as he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “Until such time as you change your mind.”

Bea swallowed, suddenly aware of why this man was regarded as such a danger to the female race. The word she had conjured upon first seeing returned to her; he was indeed compelling. She saw now his eyes were dark blue, the colour of a summer sky in the hour before darkness fell. There was nothing soft about him, his face and figure were all hard lines and sharp angles, and he seemed larger than life, full of colour and vibrancy in a room that faded around him until she could see only him.

They shook hands, and Bea knew it was too late to back out, not that she had a choice. The niggling fear that she had made a deal with the devil, and he knew the rules when she did not, was hard to shake off. Still, Bea forced a smile to her lips and nodded.

“A deal, Lord Rutherford, and the sooner you can get the thing done, the better I shall like it.”