A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley Ann Solomon

Genres: Regency Romance; Gothic; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

In The Game Of Love. . .

Resourceful, intrepid, but nonetheless a lady, Miss Theresa Hampstead is spoiling for adventure. . .and about to stumble upon it. Having set out--alone--for London to investigate the state of her pending inheritance, Tessie soon finds herself stranded at a roadside inn, where she is denied a room--until a well-heeled, but decidedly arrogant stranger secures her accommodation. Far from feeling gracious, however, Tessie is infuriated at the man's brusqueness. . .and intrigued when she spies him creeping stealthily from his room for a midnight rendezvous. . .

. . .Turnabout Is Fair Play

Romance is most certainly not on Lord Nicholas Cathgar's agenda when he comes to the aid of lovely but vexatious Theresa Hampstead. His secret mission to foil a group of anarchists brings him to a meeting spot near the inn where, as he fights a losing battle with the bloodthirsty gang, he is rescued by none other than a certain spirited female--who happens to be a crack shot! To his chagrin, Nicholas now owes the lady his life, as well as the forty guineas that were pilfered from her room. He insists on escorting her to London, and presents her with a debt of honor. It's a debt he'd gladly repay with his heart--if the captivating Tessie would accept his hand. . .

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

“Mr. Dobbins, you will kindly remove your arm before I either scream out or do you serious injury.”

Miss Hampstead’s voice was calm but dangerously firm. Her dark eyes flashed brightly. Little ringlets persisted in escaping from her somber bonnet, trimmed, as it was, in colors of half mourning. Its redeeming feature—a merry, twirling feather, now looked somewhat worse for wear. Tessie thought of it as the last straw on her present haystack of troubles.

She tugged at the bonnet’s lilac ribbons and wriggled on the hard perch seat. Her furious words appeared to have no apparent effect, for the negligent arm still crept about her waist, persisting in its unwelcome attentions.

Tessie breathed hard from a virtuous desire to practice patience. If she had it her way, she would simply heave the driver straight onto the Great North Road and take off with his cattle. But that, she knew, would be unladylike. She sighed and tried again.

“Dear Mr. Dobbins, in case you are deluding yourself, I should mention that I would not permit you to touch me if you were the last man on earth. So do be a dear and let me go before I feel obliged to create a fuss!”

But Mr. Dobbins, who was very fine in an ill-fitting olive riding coat with an extremely high collar, did not seem to care about threats. He took his eyes off the horses and the narrow stretch of road simply to enjoy Miss Tessie’s satisfying curves. Then he compounded his sin by setting his arms squarely about her waist again, scraping a good deal of carriage paint on the only signpost in miles, and causing his elderly high steppers to sweat.

Tessie hurtled forward but managed not to land in an undignified heap. Nevertheless, her gown was made hopelessly dusty, the hems acquiring two grubby brown stripes across the front. She dusted them down crossly, noting that her tormentor still did not have his team under control. He clearly had not the faintest notion how to handle a team. She murmured a few sterling words of advice—for she was an excellent horsewoman—but was, naturally, ignored.

She prepared, rather fatalistically, to be ditched. After two hours of traversing the countryside with the hapless Oliver Dobbins, she did not repose the least confidence in his skill with the reins. Consequently, she resigned herself to the inevitable collision, clutching hard at her perch and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. When a phaeton curled quickly around a nearby bend, she heard it, and accepted her fate calmly.

Or at least, as calmly as her volatile nature permitted. At the last moment, she could not refrain from opening her long lashes, grabbing the ribbons, muttering a few choice epithets—and, I am sorry to say it, actually yelling.

“You will ditch the gig, you unutterable beast!” Tessie’s eyes gleamed in fury, a fact that Mr. Dobbins, hardly ruffled by the clouds of dust that the near accident had caused, ignored. He merely coughed, tugged ineptly on the reins, and smirked when his horses pulled up a mere matter of inches from the oncoming phaeton.

This, due more to the skill of the other driver, who had swerved neatly, narrowly avoiding the ditch on the opposing side.

“You complete fool! You . . .” Words escaped Tessie. Well, ladylike ones did.

“Hush, Miss Hampstead. It is of no use to squawk. I am perfectly accustomed to insults.”

This Tessie immediately had the proof of, for the gentleman in the phaeton pulled to a halt. Within a very few seconds he’d jumped from his chaise and begun a lively series of abuses, beginning with Mr. Dobbins’s hamhandedness and ending with a derogatory remark, interpolated with several choice epithets that Tessie silently appreciated and, sadly, rather admired.

Upon sighting Tessie with a profusion of lovely curls still escaping her dull lilac straw, he colored up and began “pardoning his language in front of a lady.”

Whereupon Miss Hampstead nodded demurely, relieved that he could have heard nothing of her own colorful expletives seconds earlier. She was actually saucy enough to bat her lashes, an act that had the effect of making the gentleman in the phaeton falter a little, his annoyance trailing off in a flurry of jumbled exclamations that even the most avid listener could have made no sense of whatsoever.

Tessie did not seem to mind, for though the words were not immediately apparent, the intentions were. For a fraction of an instant, she nearly applied to the gentleman for assistance, for he looked young and kind and charming, even if a little too eager to tool his horses around the bend at breakneck speed.

But then a second, more sedate carriage drew up behind, and Tessie realized he was one of a party—probably his mama and his betrothed—and her presence would likely be irksome. As a very high feather emerged from the window, followed by a fashionable poke bonnet and a pair of inquisitive eyes, the impression was confirmed. Further, the difficulty in describing her own reprehensible circumstances to the satisfaction of all seemed perfectly impossible.

So she held her tongue and extended her hand regally, hoping that no introductions needed to be made. She had her wish, for Mr. Dobbins was in no mood for civil banter.

None of this interlude seemed to phase Miss Hampstead’s would-be seducer, for he merely fiddled with his reins and got his ill-matched beasts trotting again, although hardly in tandem—a fact Theresa’s tired derrière was now becoming accustomed to on the hard seat.

“What was I saying?”

Miss Hampstead adjusted her hat.

“You were saying,” she answered sweetly, “that you were perfectly accustomed to insults.”

“Ah, yes. So I was.” He nodded in satisfaction, long sleeves flapping against his reedlike frame. “What I am not accustomed to is a pretty little armful. That, I am happy to say, I am bound to rectify this afternoon.”

“I will shoot you first, you silly creature. I should never have asked you to take me up.”

“Oh, but then you would never have reached London, would you?”

Since this was unanswerable, Tessie contented herself with glowering at the wretch and tilting her chin significantly toward the horizon. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that this stratagem was pointless, for Mr. Dobbins was affording her yet another infuriating smirk. He continued as if unaware of her annoyance.

“In point of fact, my dear, I should never have agreed to the excursion, for a more tiresome, quarrelsome vixen as you have proven to be I cannot imagine. So, you see, neither of us are best satisfied, but we are bound to endure.”

Tessie ignored the unpleasant beating of her heart. She was not afraid, for she was far from puddinghearted, but she would have been a great fool not to take Mr. Dobbins’s threats at least a little seriously. Still, she did not think it at all necessary for Mr. Dobbins to know that he had overset her, so she retorted with spirit.

“If that means bumping all down the road pulled by a couple of job horses and enduring lascivious glances for the next few hours, do pray excuse me. I declare I can hardly stomach the notion.”

“You do not have to stomach it, merely comply with it. You have excellent shoulders, Miss Tessie. I have always thought so, though for some perfectly skatter-brained reason, your grandfather was never so kind as to afford me a closer look. I would have offered marriage, you know!”

“Marriage? Why in the world do you think Grandfather would have countenanced that?”

“Because our lands march together and it would have saved him the cost of a London Season.”

The answer was almost too prompt for Tessie. Her eyes glimmered with sudden mirth.

“Never say you actually had the nerve to put that to him?”

“I did, though the old goat behaved so disgracefully, I withdrew the offer instantly.”

“For which, I own, I am heartily grateful.”

“You may not think so at the end of this day, Miss Hampstead, for I find it is no longer convenient to marry you. Your dowry is apparently disappointing, if village rumors are to be believed?”

There was just the faint interrogative in his tone that made Miss Hampstead color slightly, for it was to answer precisely this question that she’d been so determined to find her way to London.

The offices of Mr. Devonshire, the Viscount of Hampstead’s solicitor, was of far more significance to her at this point than viewing the Elgin Marbles or even the Tower of London.

It was there, she knew, that she would be able to ascertain, at last, in precisely what circumstances she stood. But none of this was any of Mr. Dobbins’s business, though he eyed her keenly.

Too keenly, she thought. But if he thought her portion sufficient, he might be distracted away from his current deplorable intentions. Accordingly, Tessie swallowed the preposterously unladylike comment that hovered teasingly on her lips and assumed an air of haughty disdain.

“Disappointing? I would hardly call sixty thousand pounds a year disappointing, Mr. Dobbins!”

The eyes sharpened for a moment, then the tips of a rather elongated mouth slackened in disbelief.

“Never smoke without fire, Miss Hampstead. And though your bonnet is rather fine, your gown is . . . shabby.”

“Oh!” Tessie was incensed, the more because she knew the remark to be true. Truth to tell, after putting away her blacks, she had no gown suitable for half mourning besides this pink and a pearly mauve in the bandbox. She satisfied herself that more could be procured in London, but to be told as bold as brass that she was “shabby” was the absolute outside of enough. And now those creeping hands again . . . she pursed her lips and wriggled.

Mr. Dobbins seemed satisfied by her silence. Smug, really. At last, thinking he had made a rather significant point, he concentrated on the reins. Tessie watched the autumn leaves fall from the trees and contemplated the enormity of her scrape.

She had tumbled into it quite accidentally really, for how was she to know that she could be so horribly mistaken in Mr. Dobbins’s character? Or that London could be so very far? She was positive that every bone in her body would be aching before they reached the next posting house. But that, of course, was not the worst of her problems.

Her problems were prodigious and tangled. She would be hard pressed, for example, to explain exactly how it came to be that she, a gently bred female, the granddaughter of a viscount no less, should be trotting off to London in horse and trap unfit for the knacker’s yard. Worse, why she should be unaccompanied by any female of respectable age, lineage, or relationship to her, and worse yet, why she should even now be fending off the most unwelcome advances of a certain Mr. Oliver Dobbins, late of the village of Greenford?

Certainly, if the viscount had been alive, none of these strange circumstances would have occurred. She would doubtless be preparing for her first London Season, arguing over ball gowns—she had most unsuitable taste—and dashing through the park on the high stepper she was sure she could have wheedled out of his lordship.

If Grandfather Hampstead had not died in a carriage accident, she would have driven sedately to London in his chaise, on soft squabs and accompanied by outriders. Certainly not in so ramshackle a manner as this!

Miss Hampstead tried her very best not to look guilty. But her features, piquant beneath the straw hat, were far too expressive for her liking. She knew, of course, perfectly well that she should have waited for the full period of her mourning to be over before attempting this unsuitable excursion. Further, she knew that she should have sent word to Brighton, for dear old Finchie, despite being newly married at the grand age of seven and forty, would doubtless have hastened back to chaperone her.

But Tessie, try as she would, could not think that poor Mr. Moreton, once coaxed out of his bachelorhood, would welcome such an outcome to his marriage trip. Even so, Miss Fincham—no, it was Mrs. Moreton now—was just the redoubtable sort of person she needed.

She would have been quite able to depress the pretensions of such a person as Oliver Dobbins. Not that Tessie was not perfectly able to do so herself, but her methods were less socially acceptable than Miss Fincham’s.

Had she not been told time and time again that ladies do not shoot gentlemen? They do not even, as she had once shockingly put it, “plant them a facer” no matter how much they were deserving of such treatment. Females of quality, as Miss Finch frequently liked to instruct, raised their eyebrows coldly, pointedly remarked upon the weather, or at their most cutting, bobbed the slightest of curtsies and turned their backs.

Well, that was all very well, of course, but if you were stuck in a rackety gig with a bonnet to hide your pretty but haughty eyebrows, and it was impossible to make any kind of curtsy, never mind turn one’s back, there were rather few options left available.

Tessie had tried the weather but had not progressed very far, for there is only so much one can say about a crisp autumn day that is cold but not biting. Besides, she would rather choke than converse with a man whose stated intention was to divest her of her maidenhood at the nearest posting house.

She sneaked a peek at the scurrilous rogue she had trusted her venture to. Yes, he still had that odious smirk upon his sallow countenance—the type of smirk she longed to put an end to by ditching the team and grabbing the reins herself. But the road had too many bends and twists—far too risky. Besides, though the horses were as lame as donkeys, Tessie could not wish to see them hurt, and they might be if she decided on such a course.

So she abandoned all attempts to be ladylike and contemplated biting Mr. Dobbins’s whip hand. This was currently curling about her waist in a manner that was as sly as it was distasteful. If she leaned forward, she could just manage it. It did not signify in the least that the feather on her bonnet would be sadly rumpled. However, on reflection, the taste of his horrible tan riding glove in her mouth was something she could not relish, so she settled, first, on giving him a sporting warning.

“Unhand me, if you please!”

For answer, a faint, supercilious snort. “Kindly remove your fingers. They are poking me.”

“Stroking, you mean.”

“Poking. And I meant it about my pistol.”

“Nonsense. A woman never means such things. And even when one does, one can rely on a poor aim equaled only by an equivalently poor temper to ensure no lasting harm is done.”

It took all Tessie’s self-control not to prove him hazardously, disastrously, and irreparably wrong. But if there was one thing her grandfather had taught her, it was to take her skill seriously. She was in the habit of joking that nothing could be more fatal than to kill someone. But the truth weighed heavily with her, for Tessie, sad to say, was a hothead.

A hothead with a strangely remarkable eye, a superbly trained balance, and an enviable swiftness that always caused a chuckle to rise in the throat of the old Viscount of Hampstead. It was a combination of which poor Oliver Dobbins was wholly unaware, for Miss Fincham had always disapproved heartily of such goings-on and would never permit a word of such matters to pass beyond the gates of Hampstead Oaks.

Now the urge to reach into the reticule that bounced demurely upon her dusty pink skirts was almost overwhelming. Tessie bit her lip and concentrated on the pretty trim hat her half-mourning clothes now permitted. She would not, she told herself, shoot unless she truly needed to. The temptation, quite frankly, was strong. But she demurely played with the elegant ribbons of her reticule and satisfied herself with a mere remark.

“You are admirably sanguine, Mr. Dobbins. I congratulate you on your smugness. I’m sure I hope it is not ill founded.”

“And I congratulate you on a sharp tongue. A woman’s only weapon, but you appear to keep it well honed.”

“Ah, you give me such ample opportunity!”

Again the sweet smile and a tug at the reticule ribbons. These gay, curling wisps no longer appeared quite as jaunty, but Miss Hampstead was concentrating so fiercely on not shooting Mr. Dobbins that she did not appear to notice overmuch.

The gentleman, disappointed by her inattention, frowned and fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the passing of the common stage, the chime of some distant church bells, and the rumble of their carriage wheels.

Presently, the dust road turned to cobble. Mr. Dobbins, who had lost interest, for the moment, in continuing a conversation in which he appeared to be the loser, seemed intent on killing his stumbling beasts. Miss Hampstead sighed, nobly refraining from offering advice, though her instincts told her that the left chestnut was pulling and probably needed to be reshod. Also, though they had been traveling for several hours, the horses had not been watered, which to her was as cruel as it was foolish.

The ride continued, consequently, in silence, though Miss Hampstead was necessitated from time to time to remove creeping fingers from her person. She thought London had never seemed so far.

Just past the Postlethwaite toll, on a little fork in the road that leads, in one instance, to a small ivy-clad cottage, and in another, just a few miles beyond, to the regular mail coach route, a furtive glance was cast at the countryside. To untrained eyes, the scrawny man with the thin, majestic features and the pinched chin appeared quite benign, for he was sporting a tweed greatcoat with two respectable capes and did not brandish any particular weapon.

This, of course, in stark contrast to the gentleman—and one uses the term loosely—beside him, who was burlier, dirtier, and pleased to be holding both a blunderbuss and a nasty type of pickax that somehow appeared menacing.

One would be wrong, of course, for the bonier man was by far the more dangerous, he being the handpicked emissary of a certain Mr. Philip Grange, whispered of in most circles, wanted by Bow Street, and feared about London with a great trembling of nerves.

Satisfied that there were no stray ears to hear the clandestine nature of his discourse, the bony beckoned the burly, waving aside the pickax with irritation. Purely, one supposed, from force of habit, he leaned close to his companion and muttered some grim words darkly. “ ’Is royal ’ighness rides tonight. After the meeting, Fagan, I want yer to follow ’is cavalcade down to Kings and Knight-bury. See wot yer can spy out.”

Then, balking, it must be supposed, at the rank breath that beset him, he stepped back and waited for his companion to nod reverentially, as was his due. He was disappointed, for the burly one was more acquainted with gutter fights than with reverence, and merely wiped his nose against his blunderbuss arm.

“Like as not, I’ll spy some wenching.”

“Clothead! Of course yer will! ‘Alf our information comes by ’is maids and mistresses! No, I mean see if ‘e meets wiv anyone. Rumor ’as it there is a spy among us.”

“Among us?”

“Aye, among us God-fearin’ Luddites. We can’t take chances. The whole matter is a hanging offense, Lor’ ’elp us.”

“Killin’ the king? Cause for national praise, belike.”

“Hold your tongue, and ‘e’s not king yet.”

“No, nor like to be, thanks to a dozen able coves.”

“A dozen able coves and one spy.”

“Wot? Lor! I see wot yer mean!”

“Yes, well, it takes yer a bit longer, Fagan, but if the penny ‘as dropped, at last, I’ll not be complainin’. And neever will Master Philip.”

At this, the burly one shivered, his eye narrowing.

“Oo do yer suspect?”

“Not certain—got a list of possibles, but need proof.”

“Oo are the possibles?”

“Danvers from Sideham, Marley from Trent, and Murray ‘Iggins from . . . blimey, can’t think where ’e’s from. Midlands somewhere. The others seem all right and tight, but yer never can be shore.”

The man who . . .