A Beguiling Intrigue Read online

  A BEGUILING INTRIGUE

  by

  JANE TOOMBS

  * * * *

  ISBN 1-59279-466-1

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Jane Toombs

  Also By Jane Toombs

  Dangerous Medicine

  An Improper Alliance

  Ladies Of The Lakes

  Love's Last Stand

  A Most Unsuitable Bride

  Rebel's Revenge

  Snow Flower

  Temple Of Serpents

  Traitor's Kiss

  The Wrong Girl

  CHAPTER 1

  "First of all,” Quentin Fletcher, Marquess of Devon, said, “I must get the kiddies off the street.” He proceeded to lead out his trumps with confidence, followed this with a daring finesse and then splayed the last of his cards face up on the table as he claimed the remainder of the tricks.

  "Damnation!” Lord Alton threw his cards down on the green felt. “Never in my life have I witnessed such an astounding run of luck."

  Quentin smiled, perhaps a trifle smugly, but made no reply as he collected his winnings from Mr. Ogden Stewart and Ogden's nephew, John Willoughby. When he turned to Lord Alton, the other man frowned.

  "I seem to have none of the ready at hand, Devon. If you would be so kind as to allow me to settle with you tomorrow evening at the Jockey Club?"

  Quentin raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Of course,” he agreed even though well aware of Alton's reputation for being a man with deep pockets but exceedingly short arms. Bidding his three companions good-night, Quentin threaded his way among the gaming tables to the door, nodding right and left when hailed by friends and acquaintances.

  After he left, White's seemed strangely diminished. Leaving the gaming tables, Ogden Stewart, Willoughby, and Lord Alton repaired to the smoking room where they settled in armchairs for a bout of semi-serious drinking.

  Alton, a young fox-faced gentleman dressed in the height of fashion, lit one of the Cuban cigars he favored, leaned his head back and blew smoke rings toward the high ceiling of the club. “That gentleman is in dire need of a come down."

  Mr. Ogden Stewart, who was considerably older than his companions, blinked rheumy eyes. “Who?” Ogden, his thoughts, as usual, more on the rose-tinted past than the prosaic present, was renowned for his ability to misinterpret even the most obvious remark.

  "Devon, of course. He considers himself to be much too much of a good thing."

  "Because he happens to be devilishly good at cards?” Willoughby asked.

  "Not only because of his luck at whist,” Alton said. “A string of successes, however undeserved they may be, corrodes a man's character. He becomes top-lofty."

  "Quentin is more than merely lucky,” Willoughby protested, “though I grant you he is that. He not only has a way with cards and dice but with horses as well. Not to mention women.” Noticing the scowl that darkened Lord Alton's face, he added hastily, “Sorry.” An amiable though careless young man, Willoughby spent much of his time smoothing unintentionally ruffled feathers.

  Alton dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand.

  "Sorry about what?” Ogden asked querulously. “Why must you young chaps constantly talk in riddles? How can you expect me to carry on an intelligent conversation with you if you refuse to speak plain and simple English?"

  Willoughby frowned in a speaking way at his uncle, his look warning him not to pursue the matter.

  "I only meant to defend Quentin,” Willoughby said, turning to Alton, “from the charge that his many successes are merely the result of the favor of the gods. After all, I consider him one of my best friends."

  "A best friend!” Alton said scornfully. “And yet I know for a fact you have no notion where he goes or what he does when he mysteriously disappears from town for weeks at a time. In my opinion, Devon has a choice bit of muslin hidden away in the country."

  "I still fail to understand,” Ogden persisted, “why you, Willoughby, felt called upon to apologize to Alton."

  Willoughby shook his head, sighing.

  "He suspected he might have offended me,” Alton said, “by claiming Devon has a way with women.” When Ogden still looked puzzled, he added, “Because of that unfortunate Serpentine affair."

  "Devon is a handsome devil,” Ogden said. “And quite the charmer when he has a mind to be."

  Alton sniffed. “I expect a woman might consider him handsome if she happened to have a taste for tall, fair men.” Lord Alton smoothed his jet-black hair. “But I fear his so-called charm completely escapes me. Unless his twenty thousand a year could be said to constitute charm."

  "The Serpentine affair?” Ogden knitted his brow.

  Neither Alton nor Willoughby were surprised by the question since it was not uncommon for a considerable time to elapse before Ogden completely comprehended what was said to him and formulated an appropriate response.

  "Ah, yes, now I remember, that was the occasion when Lord Devon saved a Miss Georgiana Moore from drowning in the Park.” Ogden lowered his voice. “There were those who maintained that she threw herself into the water merely as a ploy to attract his attention."

  "The whole affair was over and done with months ago,” Lord Alton said. “Absolutely over and done with. It was no great thing so I no longer harbor hard feelings toward Devon, none at all."

  Suddenly Ogden's eyes and mouth opened wide; he slapped his thigh. “By God, Alton, Georgiana was your cher amie at the time and Devon not only plucked her from the water but snatched her right out from under your protection. Another example of the inconstancy of women.” He glanced sternly at Willoughby. “That, nephew, was a most embarrassing subject to mention in Alton's presence. You young bucks should really be more tactful."

  Again Willoughby sighed. “I intend to do my best,” he promised.

  "A capital resolve. Speaking of embarrassments, I recall the day Lord Kinsdale came to me—Lord Kinsdale? No, it must have been Prescott.” Ogden ran his fingers through his thick white hair. “No, no, I had it right the first time; it was Kinsdale, without a doubt. At least I believe so."

  "I was suggesting,” Lord Alton put in hastily, “that our good friend Devon needs to be taken down at peg or two. He should be forced to eat a portion of humble pie for once in his charmed life."

  "He has been acting rather high in the instep of late,” Willoughby conceded.

  "No, not Kinsdale,” Ogden said more to himself than to the others. “Nor Prescott either, for that matter. It must have been old Riggs. Riggs happened to be a distant cousin of yours, Willoughby, if memory serves me aright. Passed on in the year nine, old Riggs did, at the age of three score and two. A fit of apoplexy carried him off."

  "It would be for Devon's own good,” Alton said, ignoring Ogden, “if we managed to hold the looking glass in front of Devon to show him he was a mere mortal like the rest of us. A good thrashing at the gaming tables might serve the purpose."

  "We must do nothing malicious,” Willoughby said. “I could abide a bit of sport at Devon's expense, but naught that might do him harm."

  "Certainly nothing malicious, upon my word,” Alton said quickly. “You both know full well I bear Lord Devon no malice. A deucedly clever coil of some sort would suffice to put him in his place, a harmless prank and nothing more, something all four of us could all sit here at White's afterwards and laugh about. As long as we three do more of the laughing than Devon."

  "There were those,” Ogden said, “who claimed old Riggs passed away after becoming overly riled by all the funning at his expense after his Indian Prince ran last in the Thousand Guineas’ Stakes at Newmarket. He was odds-on, you know, and I myself lost a considerable sum when I—
"

  "That was many years before my time,” Alton interrupted.

  "Wait, my uncle may be on to something.” Willoughby put down his glass of madeira, leaned forward, lowered his voice. “We are all aware how inordinately proud Devon is of his Invincible. If we could challenge him to a match race with Devon riding Invincible and somehow manage to win..."

  "Invincible almost lives up to his name,” Alton said. “And I must admit Devon has always been a superb horseman. There might be four or five thoroughbreds in England who could defeat Invincible. But no more."

  "Excalibur could best him. And I expect I might persuade Lord Clifford to let me run him against Invincible."

  Alton shook his head. “To lose to a better steed would be no come down for Devon. And he might very well confound us by winning. One way or another, most of Devon's ventures succeed in turning up trumps."

  "Wait, hear me out. My notion is to disguise Excalibur by blackening the white blaze on his forehead—Clifford will fall in with the scheme, he enjoys a lark as much as the next one—so we could pass the horse off to Devon as an untried stallion fresh from the wilds of Scotland. Nothing would please him more than to best the Scots."

  "Jolly good, Willoughby.” Lord Alton rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Now if only we could add a clever twist to the scheme, a topper of some sort."

  Ogden cleared his throat. “Not so much because Riggs’ horse lost, you know. Rather because the horse that outran him happened to be owned by a damned female.” He put his hand to his chin. “Afraid I forget her name."

  Willoughby nodded, started to speak and then stopped abruptly. He stared at his uncle. “Say that once more."

  "Old Riggs never recovered from the disgrace of losing to a female. Nor would I in similar circumstances."

  "Devon has a rather low opinion of abilities of the female of the species.” Willoughby steepled his fingers as he stared up at the haze of smoke hovering over their heads. “If he were not only to lose the race but lose to a woman, that would be a wicked come down for him."

  Lord Alton nodded. “We could always claim our horse was owned by a woman from Glasgow. Is that your meaning?"

  "No, not precisely, I was thinking of our jockey. I propose our Scottish Excalibur be ridden by a woman."

  Lord Alton considered and then vehemently shook his head. “Devon would never consent to a match race against a horse with a female in the saddle, even in the unlikely event we could find one to undertake the task. Never. The notion would be as beneath his dignity and as repugnant to him as it is to me."

  "Agreed, he never would agree. But hear me out ... the jockey for our Scottish ringer would be a woman, but a woman in the guise of a man. Think of it, Alton, picture the sensation when she whips her steed to victory, removes her cap with a flourish, allowing her hair to tumble down her back. I doubt if Devon would show his face in the ton for six months. Or longer."

  "A capital notion with but a single flaw. Where on this earth would we ever find this paragon of a woman, one who could outride Lord Devon even if mounted on a faster horse. Answer me that, Willoughby, where is she?"

  Willoughby slumped in his chair. “Sorry, I haven't the foggiest."

  Willoughby and Alton sat in discouraged silence; Ogden, adrift in the past, stared beyond them. At last Ogden spoke. “He sired a daughter,” the old man said. “Always wanted a son, Riggs did, but his only child, a child of his old age, turned out to be a female. A damn shame, if you ask me."

  Lord Alton waved his hand. “If you please, Ogden, allow me to think."

  "Never knew a man so desperate to sire a son,” Ogden went blithely on. “Finally fathered a child at the age of fifty-three and what was it? A girl. He never accepted the fact that the baby had the misfortune to be female rather than male. Not her fault, after all. And so old Riggs managed to compound his wretched misfortune as the single-minded are wont to do."

  "How was that?” Willoughby wanted to know.

  "Old Riggs had decided to name his son Justin so he named the wee babe Justine, and after his wife died in childbirth, he reared the young miss as though she had the good fortune to be born a boy rather than a girl. None of your delicate needlework or daubing with water colors or fingering the scales on the pianoforte for her. No, by God, if she refused to be born a boy she could at least behave like one. So he raised her to hunt and shoot and do sums."

  "I say!” Lord Alton was all attention now. “And this girl-boy, did he teach her to ride?"

  "Damme, yes, he taught her to ride as good as or better than any lad."

  Willoughby nodded. “Justine, I recall her now, she must be a second or third cousin of mine on my father's side. I last saw her quite some years ago at a race meet, garbed like a young dandy.” He frowned. “Surely she must be rather young."

  "Never was much with sums, myself,” Ogden said. “But old Riggs passed on eight years ago, and so if I were to venture a guess as to her age, I expect I might say eighteen or so."

  "She might be that by now,” Willoughby said. “The last I heard of her she was in the care of an uncle of her mother's somewhere in the country. Near Gravesend? Yes, surely near Gravesend."

  "Excellent,” Lord Alton said. “She may well be the answer to our prayers. And since you, Willoughby, are a cousin of sorts, I suggest you be the one to proceed to the country in all haste to explore the possibilities.” He gave a self-satisfied sigh. “If this scheme of mine succeeds, our good friend Quentin Fletcher, Marquess of Devon, will suffer a never-to-be-forgotten come down."

  * * * *

  On Friday of the following week, after receiving no reply to his letter to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Griffith of Gravesend, the couple he had learned were the guardians of Justine Riggs, John Willoughby boarded the afternoon mail coach and arrived in the port city shortly before five o'clock. A half dozen sailing ships lay at anchor in the Thames waiting for the turn of the tide before sailing upriver to London.

  He received several misdirections, one which he suspected was quite intentional as retribution for his showing no interest in a proposed visit to the burial place of the Indian princess Pocahontas, the supposed savior of John Rolfe. Pocahontas suffered the misfortune of dying in Gravesend while on the first leg of her return journey to America after a sojourn in England. In consequence, as darkness fell, Willoughby found himself walking along a lonely road on his way to the Griffith cottage.

  He recognized the large oak described to him by a shopkeeper in the city—fortunately for him a full moon cast a bright, silvery glow over the surrounding countryside—and turned down a lane he had been assured would lead him to the Griffith's. And, more importantly, to their ward. Mr. Griffith, a cousin of Justine Riggs and not, as Ogden thought, a great-uncle, had been her guardian since the untimely death of her father.

  As he hurried on, Willoughby, city born and bred, glanced uneasily at the shadows crouching on all sides of him. To raise his spirits, he began to sing softly, his voice rising plaintively as he came to the sad refrain—"But me and my true love will never meet again, by the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond."

  All at once he stopped, catching his breath as he stood stock still to gaze in wary fascination at an apparition that seemed to hover above the field to his right. An apparition? What else could it possibly be? Willoughby asked himself, knowing that only a heaven-sent vision could be so lovely and yet so unearthly.

  It was, he realized after a few minutes, a young woman gliding away from him as she climbed a low hill, a woman garbed entirely in white, her flowing gown silvered by the moonlight, her hair as black as the night itself. Though he was unable to see her face, Willoughby knew in his heart she was indescribably lovely.

  And he also realized to his dismay that in a very few moments she would disappear and he would never see her again. And he must see her again; fate, his romantic heart told him, had decreed he follow and discover who she was. Without the slightest hesitation, he abandoned the lane and, after avoiding a fall into a ditch
, strode into the field. For an instant he lost sight of her but, increasing his pace, he again glimpsed a shimmering wisp of white in the distance before his lady of the moonlight, as he thought of her, disappeared once more, hidden by the trees and shrubs on the hillside.

  Willoughby hastened on, stumbling and almost falling before at last espying the dark ribbon of a path curling ahead of him up the hill. As he followed the path he breathed in a faint, sweet scent. Wild roses? No, he told himself, nothing so prosaic, the scent was the perfume of the gods. When he reached the top of the hill, he slowed when he saw the dark outline of a structure some hundred feet ahead of him.

  The building, much too small to be a house, resembled a gazebo with a railed but unroofed porch going completely around, at least as far as he could determine, a one-story central section. There was no light in the building nor was there any evidence of the young woman he had followed.

  What in the devil am I doing here? Willoughby asked himself as he stood staring at the building. He had no ready answer and yet he made no attempt to turn and retrace his steps. On the contrary, as though drawn by an unknown and incomprehensible force, he slowly approached the structure, peering ahead in a vain attempt to pierce the darkness.

  Who was this young woman in her wraith-like garments? What had brought her to this lonely hilltop in the dark of the night? Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of jealousy mingled with a voyeur's guilt and anticipation, she had hastened to this secluded spot to rendezvous with a lover.

  A twig snapped under his foot. He heard footsteps from the direction of the building followed by the sound of a door closing. His heart in his throat, his pulses pounding, he held, waiting.

  "Who is it?"

  The woman's voice was more self-assured than his would be if he were forced to speak at this moment. He stepped back, glancing around for a refuge, a hiding place, finally sidling to his left as he sought to conceal himself in the shadow of a tree.

  "Damn,” he muttered as another twig snapped under his foot.

  "Come forward and show yourself, or I shall shoot."

  Willoughby drew in his breath in a sudden gasp. Shoot? This mysterious heaven-sent apparition was armed and prepared to fire on him? Impossible! He barely prevented a nervous laugh from escaping his lips.