Page 2 of The Wallflower Ruse

“It is very much to do with me, since you are here—a maiden, uninvited and unchaperoned.” He took the letter from her slackened grip, ignoring her protest, and quickly perused it. “A complicated ruse, but it won’t work.”

“It worked all too well,” Lucinda retorted. “My sister left a note at home, saying she had quarreled with Humphrey and meant to compromise herself with you instead. She knew I would come hotfoot to stop her.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.” Dear God, he was positively sneering. “Things have come to a pretty pass when even a confirmed wallflower is stupid enough to pursue me.”

“Pursue you? I would scorn to try such a trick!” she cried, flushing with mortification.

He laughed derisively.

Furious, she snatched the letter back. “Hitherto, despite finding you unlikable, I would have given you the benefit of the doubt as my brother’s longtime friend. No longer, for now I see you are as arrogant and ill-mannered as others say. Good day, my lord.”

She nodded politely at the lad and moved toward the door—then halted at the sound of a commotion in the Great Hall. The protests of the footman were overridden by a peremptory voice. “It’s an urgent matter. We’ll show ourselves in.”

“Damnation!” muttered Restive, whilst his shabby companion was frankly alarmed. “Behind the door,” Restive hissed, gesturing. “While I keep them occupied, you’ll slip out.”

At first, Lucinda thought he wanted her to hide, but then realized he was addressing the young lad. Restive strode toward the door, beckoning to Lucinda to hasten. “Hurry up, girl, and leave quickly by the side door. This could prove disastr—”

The door was flung open almost in his face, and the man from London she’d seen earlier stormed in, followed by an uneasy Squire Huber. The London gentleman’s name, Lucinda recalled now, was Wharton.

At the sight of Lucinda, both men halted. The uneasiness on the Squire’s face turned to shock, while Wharton, who fancied himself quite the consummate man about town, was horridly smug at such a juicy scandal in the making.

Stupid men, thought Lucinda. The shabby lad peeked out from behind the door. His only hope of escape was for their eyes to remain on her. She snatched a little book sitting on a nearby desk and gazed up at Restive, doing her best to simper.

“Thank you for loaning me this lovely book of poetry, my lord. It’s just what my mother asked for. She’ll be ever so grateful.”

A wave of something like consternation crossed Restive’s face. “My pleasure, Miss Belair, but are you sure you want that one?” He gestured to the bookshelves. “Perhaps you would prefer one of your own books, which you so cleverly forced me to house.”

He was referring to her request, shortly after the death of her father, that he store two boxes of valuable books. How she wished she could take one, or indeed all of them, but here they must stay. “They’re not mine,” she retorted, flushing again, this time with rage. “They were Papa’s and are now my brother’s. Mother would have burned them!”

“So you said at the time.” He rolled his eyes. “Feel free to choose something your mother won’t burn, whilst I deal with these uninvited guests.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Huber said, recalling himself to the business at hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we had word that a fugitive was in here with you.”

Mr. Wharton left his lascivious survey of Lucinda’s figure to glance suspiciously around the room.

The shabby fellow was gone, but perhaps not far enough yet. Lucinda clapped a hand to her breast. “A fugitive? Mercy me!”

“Merely a lad who’s been doing some smuggling,” Mr. Huber said nervously.

“A dangerous one,” Wharton said. “He must be apprehended at once. We must search the house.”

Restive ignored them. “The bookshelves, Miss Belair?”

Didn’t he want her to leave quickly? Her excuse about a book for her mother was feeble at best. “Thank you kindly, my lord,” she said, “but Mother awaits this poetry with bated breath.”

“Farewell, then,” he said to her retreating back. “I shall call to see how your mother and sister go on.”

“Unnecessary, my lord,” she retorted and hurried out the door, pulling it shut behind her to the sound of irate male voices. The Great Hall was empty. The footman lounged outside, having a chinwag with Lucinda’s groom, who came forward and helped her into the coach.

“Foul man,” she muttered to herself, and slipped the book into her reticule. “He was tolerable, even rather fun as a boy, but he has grown to be utterly odious.” She gnashed her teeth. “If I were a vengeful person, I would make him regret his behavior.” She snorted at her own foolishness. What possible effect could she have on Restive, even if she wanted to?

The coach lurched into motion. She set dark thoughts of revenge aside as useless, and instead mused upon what had just happened. Something very odd was going on. A smuggler, Mr. Huber had said. That was likely enough. Here in Sussex, everyone was connected to smuggling in one way or another, but they all took care of each other. No wonder the Squire was embarrassed. He got his brandy from the local free traders and would never try to apprehend a man he knew.

Not only that, what did Mr. Wharton, a Londoner, have to do with arresting such men? And how dare he demand to search a nobleman’s house?

At last, she sighed. “Well,” she said aloud, “I hope he escaped, whoever he is.”

“He did,” said a voice below her. She muffled a cry, as the door on the under-seat compartment popped open and the fugitive’s untidy head appeared. “Where are you bound, miss?”