Gone With the Rogue Page 7

  Their gazes stayed locked together. The seconds tumbled by, one after the other. Neither of them moved. There was a warm glow in his eyes that made her feel exceedingly precious, wanted and longed for.

  “What did you feel when you saw me yesterday, Mr. Stockton?”

  “Desire for you. I still want you in my arms. I want to feel your lips on mine. You felt the same for me, too.”

  Yes, she’d felt heavenly desire for this seafaring man who had reportedly fought pirates, dueled gentlemen, and dined with monarchs around the world.

  All of that made him an exciting man to think about, to wonder what his touch and kisses would be like, but that wasn’t all that drew her to him. She had no knowledge of whether those stories were true. She desired the man before her now, who understood a little boy’s eagerness to be tall and brightened Brina’s day with a few kind and simple words about a husband most had already forgotten.

  Julia’s heartbeat went from slow and steady to hard and fast. She had no idea how long Mr. Stockton would be in London. It might be only a short time before he headed back to sea. If she was ever going to defy the duke’s decree she rebuff all men, Mr. Stockton was exactly the kind of man she needed to be involved with. He wouldn’t court her openly, with thoughts of marriage on his mind—something she couldn’t possibly consider. His sojourner’s way of life would never fit in with that. Their desire was mutual. Could she dare think about a safe and secret way to be with him so she could feel the strong, sure touch of his hand against her skin?

  He wasn’t hurrying her for an answer, only waiting for an invitation he had to know she wanted to give. That made him even more attractive to her.

  Julia wanted to ask him to meet her where they could be alone and share those kisses he spoke about. She opened her mouth to let him know she would consider a secret rendezvous with him, but then she heard Chatwyn laughing. His gleeful boyish sounds pulled at her heart.

  What if she were caught and the duke found out? She couldn’t take the chance of losing her son to spend a few moments, a few hours, or a few evenings with this man, no matter how tempting he was. For now, fear of what the duke could do would continue to control her.

  Julia sucked in a deep breath and walked over to the side table. She picked up Mr. Stockton’s hat and extended it toward him.

  “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Stockton.”

  He gave her a long, hard look but didn’t take the hat. “I meant it when I said you could trust me, Lady Kitson.”

  She believed him. Perhaps it was because of the bond she’d felt with him when he’d saved her from that wretched tree and their near fall. She sensed he’d felt it then and again now, too. Thoughts started churning in Julia’s mind.

  “In that case, if you don’t mind, I do have another question for you, Mr. Stockton.”

  “I am at your pleasure, Lady Kitson.”

  Julia cleared her throat. “I know you haven’t been in London very long, but have you heard anything about a recent explosion in a mine? A dreadful accident where lives were lost?”

  He quirked his head and gave her a questioning expression. His interest was clear.

  “It’s an odd question, I know,” she hurried to add. “I thought there might have been something in the morning’s newsprint, or perhaps you heard talk in one of the clubs or—wherever you might have been last night.”

  “In a mine, no.”

  Julia’s spirits plummeted.

  “There was a short article in The Times this morning about an explosion in Manchester about six weeks ago that brought down several buildings. More than a dozen people were killed.”

  “Yes, that must have been the terrible accident I heard about,” she said. “The entire town must be in mourning. Did the article say anything more about it?”

  “They discovered that one of the buildings—a gaming house—was storing barrels of gunpowder. No one knows what ignited it and there was no reason to believe it wasn’t an accident. The men who worked there and several patrons were killed in the blast. They’re still trying to locate the man who owned the building. He seems to have vanished. And no wonder, the amount of gunpowder it would have taken for such destruction should never have been stored on a busy street. Could that be what you’re referring to?”

  “Yes,” she murmured softly. “That must be what he was talking about.”

  “Who, Lady Kitson?”

  Julia blinked. “It was a conversation I overheard. I didn’t have the details of what happened. That’s why I was asking about it. I hope they find the man who owned the building and he’s forced to help the town recover. Thank you, Mr. Stockton. What you told me has helped me tremendously. I didn’t know what kind of explosion it was. Only that it was recent and people were killed. Do you remember if the article reported the name of the company that was storing the gunpowder?”

  “Eubury-Broadwell Gaming House.”

  Julia suddenly felt lightheaded.

  “Why don’t you tell me why this information is so important to you?”

  Should she confide in him? Could she trust him to keep her secret? If she did, was there anything he could do? She couldn’t ask him to help her search the house for the documents and see to it that the duke took responsibility for the tragedy and helped the victims. Yet, because of a twist of fate, she felt an uncommon bond with the adventurer, but she didn’t know if it was wise to act on that. She wanted to accept she could trust him. Suddenly the doorknocker sounded, making her jump. No, it was best she keep this information about the duke and his hidden companies to herself for now.

  “Thank you, Mr. Stockton. You’ve been very helpful.” She looked down and saw that her hands had made tight fists on the brim of his hat. “Here you go,” she said, giving it to him as Mrs. Desford came down the corridor toward them.

  Julia and Mr. Stockton moved to the side of the vestibule for the housekeeper.

  “If you should need me, Lady Kitson, I’m staying at the Holcott-Fortney Inn. Send me a note.”

  She nodded once as Mrs. Desford opened the door. “I hope that won’t be necessary.”

  He smiled at her. “I hope it will.”

  A man of average height, dressed in black except for his shirt and neckcloth, stepped into the vestibule and removed his hat. He had a round, full face with large green eyes that seemed to pierce Julia. He carried a well-worn brown leather satchel. He bowed to Julia and dipped his head toward Mr. Stockton. She didn’t know why but she took an instant dislike to the man.

  Mrs. Desford continued to hold the door open, no doubt expecting that Mr. Stockton was going to exit through it, but he remained by Julia’s side. He must have perceived that just the appearance of the stranger unsettled her.

  “I’m Mr. Oren Pratt, here at the request of the Duke of Sprogsfield, my lady. I’m to tutor Master Chatwyn.”

  “Tutor?” Julia asked anxiously as a feeling of foreboding curled inside her. “I don’t understand. For what?”

  “I am to take over instructing the duke’s grandson in his lessons during the day.”

  Julia stared at the man, astounded. “What do you mean? He’s just turned four. He’s too young to have such strict structure in his life, and if the duke doesn’t know that, you should.”

  With an air of superiority, the man lifted his chin. “One is never too young to begin learning. The sooner he starts, the more advanced he will be. I’m to start his formal training.”

  “Formal? That will begin when he goes to Eton.” She glanced at Mr. Stockton. He was intently listening to every word that was said.

  Mr. Pratt reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a letter, and handed it to Julia. “This is from the duke. I assume it will explain everything to your satisfaction.”

  A dizzying swell of anger replaced astonishment as she took the letter and squeezed it in her hand. Julia felt as rigid as the tutor looked. “No, Mr. Pratt. I can assure you it won’t.”

  He merely smiled condescendingly and said, “I have my instruc
tions from the duke, my lady. If you’ll introduce me to the child, I’ll begin.”

  Instructions indeed! Despite the warm day, she shivered. A deep, suffocating weariness stole over her. Even in sickness the duke intended to maintain control over her and Chatwyn. This was madness. Her little boy was too active to be made to sit in a chair for hours a day. He still needed the relaxed instructions Miss Periwinkle gave him. It was unfair that the duke allowed her no say in Chatwyn’s life.

  Sick or not, she should have known the duke had something up his sleeve when he agreed that she could come to London without him. This was just the duke’s way of making it clear to her she would never be free of him, never be allowed to live her own life as she chose. Who was she to think she could take on the duke and win?

  Not knowing exactly what she was going to do, Julia turned stiffly toward Mrs. Desford. “Would you please show Mr. Pratt into the drawing room and have him wait for me there?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Mr. Pratt stared at Julia. For a moment, she thought he was going to take her to task or refuse to leave. But then, after a parting glance at Mr. Stockton, he turned and followed the housekeeper.

  Julia tried to hide her seething anger when she gave her attention to Mr. Stockton once more. The way he studied her face intently, she knew he wanted to make sense of what was going on. She knew he wanted to help her. But what could he do about the tutor or the duke? What could he do about any of her troubles other than make them worse? If that were even possible.

  “That man seems determined to do the job the duke sent him to do.”

  “Yes,” she answered tightly. “For now, anyway.”

  “Would you like for me to have a word with the man?”

  “No, no, of course not. I will post a letter to the duke immediately and hopefully be able to clear this up quickly.”

  The corners of his mouth tightened. “I think you need my help in some way, Lady Kitson, and you are afraid to ask me.”

  His words stole over her like a warm shawl on a chilly night. Once again she had an overpowering need to reach out to him. He would only be in London for a short time and then be on his way to another country. Surely her secrets would be safe with him.

  While she contemplated a way to respond to him, his eyes continued to search her face, encouraging her to trust him. But how could she? Mr. Pratt wouldn’t stay away just because Mr. Stockton asked him to. She was sure the duke was paying the tutor a handsome sum. In fact, he probably wasn’t just a tutor but also a spy sent to watch her every move each day.

  No, as much as she would like to see Mr. Stockton again, confide in him, it was best she not be seen with the sojourner.

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Stockton, but I am fine. I must bid you good day.”

  Chapter 6

  Garrett stood on Lady Kitson’s front steps and crushed the brim of his hat in his hands almost as hard as she had. She not only stirred his passions, she stirred his desire to protect her. He didn’t like the idea of Mr. Pratt trying to teach Lady Kitson’s little boy, either. And when to hire a tutor should be her decision. Not the duke’s. Garrett was tempted to turn around and walk back into the house and insist she tell him what was going on. Why was the duke forcing this tutor on Chatwyn? What kind of documents was she trying to hide, and what did an explosion have to do with any of it? And what had her so frightened at the thought of asking him for help?

  Lady Kitson wasn’t a lady who lacked courage or resolve. Something vital was at stake for her and he wanted to know what it was. The problem was that she wasn’t ready to confide in him and trust him to help her. He could understand that. Maybe. She was cautious. He could appreciate that, but surely she couldn’t consider him a stranger anymore. Something kept her from confiding in him.

  Placing his hat on his head, Garrett walked down the steps to the street. He untied his horse, climbed onto the saddle, and headed toward St. James Park. He hadn’t expected to arrive in London and be immediately and totally consumed by thoughts of an alluring lady and her intriguing state of affairs. He was used to planting his feet on dry soil and immediately taking his pick from a number of women willing to satisfy a seafarer.

  After his encounter with Lady Kitson, he hadn’t wanted to pay a visit to a mistress. He’d only wanted to retrieve the widow’s butterfly net. She was the only lady on his mind.

  He’d settled into the Holcott-Fortney Inn and had sent a message to Wiley that he’d arrived in London, asking him to meet at their usual place for a ride through the park. After that, he bought a bottle of the inn’s finest brandy and found an empty chair at one of the tables in their card room. That’s where he’d spent most of the night.

  At first awakening this morning, his head pounded and his body ached with unfulfilled desire. He cursed himself for deciding to pursue gaming and an over-indulgence of brandy instead of the comforts of a soft, willing woman. He’d planned to rectify that mistake today. Now, after seeing Lady Kitson again, he knew why he’d come to that surprising conclusion yesterday. And difficult as it was to endure, it was still the right one for him. Strange as it was to admit, Lady Kitson was the only one he desired. And for now, he was going to have to live with the pain that caused.

  Bright sunlight made the sky blue as a sparkling gem, but it also made the air still and hot as Hades. He passed a man in a rumbling wagon filled with rattling milk cans, baskets of vegetables and firewood as he entered the park. Garrett tipped his hat to the farmer, and then nudged his horse to go faster. Obviously, the midday heat hadn’t kept anyone inside. The park was bustling with people strolling about, sitting on blankets, and riding in their carriages.

  Garrett had never returned to London to win favors or to reacquaint himself with anyone in the ton other than Wiley Calder, though oddly enough, Garrett was usually in Town less than twenty-four hours before the first invitations to dinners and parties started arriving. He always assumed Wiley was responsible for making it known the sea adventurer was back. Interest in him was always the same. There were those who sought him out to hear about his travels and those who questioned his right to continue to be a part of Society’s small circle.

  His friend since childhood, Wiley had always understood Garrett’s desire to make his own way in life, and his fascination with the world that lay beyond England’s tight shores. But Wiley never had the inclination to visit any of the places Garrett had been. A third son himself, Wiley was content to live in London, enjoy the fringes of the lifestyle that befitted an untitled son, and stay a gentleman—living off the allowance his older brother handed out to family members who had no lands or other income-producing properties to sustain them.

  Garrett’s father, Alfred Stockton, had been that way. Alfred had no problem accepting the pittance of allowance and a house to live in from his second cousin, an earl and the patriarch of the family. To Garrett’s father, it wasn’t money that counted; it was lineage, upbringing, and family standards that were important. He’d been happy to live in the small house where the two Stockton men had been granted a home. Alfred never understood why his son didn’t feel the same way.

  For Alfred, gambling had always been a dependable source of extra income. Not only was he good with a deck of cards, the roll of dice, and at the billiards tables, but he also had an uncanny ability to read people and know if they truly had a winning hand. Luck always seemed to follow him, no matter what game he chose, but he had no desire to even think about using his skills to start a business. He was affronted when Garrett had suggested it.

  That was for tradesmen. Not gentlemen.

  Garrett’s horse galloped up and over a gentle slope in the terrain. In the distance he saw Wiley waiting under the elm where he’d rescued Lady Kitson. The old tree had been his favorite to climb when he was a youngster. Its low branches were wide and sturdy. It amazed Garrett that she’d managed to climb high enough to reach the spindlier limbs.

  Wiley was a tall, lanky man with thin brown hair as straight as a board
. For as long as Garrett had known him, he had worn it longer than fashionable and was often seen brushing the front length of it away from his forehead. The almond shape of his eyes, long bridge of his nose, and generous, big-toothed smile made him look as friendly as he was.

  When Wiley caught sight of Garrett, he mounted and rode out to meet him. He maneuvered his horse to fall in beside Garrett’s. They shook hands firmly and then hugged briefly across the horses. The skittish mare snorted and sidestepped, tossing her head, not wanting the other animal to crowd her.

  “I was beginning to think you hadn’t received my answer that I’d be here,” Wiley said in his calm, good-natured way.

  “Something came up that delayed me. It’s good to see you, my friend. You’re looking fit. Obviously, life’s been good to you.”

  “Better than I deserve,” Wiley said with a wide smile.

  “I have no doubt of that.”

  His friend wasn’t a man who wanted much more out of life than what he already had. That kind of contentment was difficult for Garrett to understand. He’d asked Wiley to sail with him and be his partner, but Wiley had no interest in the life Garrett wanted.

  To Garrett’s knowledge, Wiley had never traveled much farther than a day’s ride from London. He was occasionally asked to spend a week or two in the summer or at Christmastide with his oldest brother, who was a viscount. The greater portion of the year he spent in London, doing the same things most gentlemen of leisure did each day: reading the newsprint in the morning and then discussing all that was of interest with the gentlemen at one of his clubs.

  On any given day, if news and gossip were scant, the gentlemen would play cards or billiards. They would attend weekly fencing matches, horse races, and cock fights, or pay a visit to their mistresses. If it was a busy day, a gentleman could manage an appearance at more than one or two events. Late afternoons and evenings would more or less be a repeat of the day, unless someone was hosting a dinner party in their home. Only then might their routines change. Garrett wasn’t interested in such a sedate life.