Tempted By The Roguish Lord. Mary Brendan

great service.’ Miss Emma Waverley strove to keep her voice lowered. From a corner of an eye she’d noticed their neighbour’s curtain twitch in an upstairs window.

      ‘Done you a service!’ the elderly fellow roared. ‘That’s what he told you, is it!’ He descended another step towards the pavement. By fully stretching out his thin arm, he brought the duelling pistol to within an inch of an elegant waistcoat. ‘These infernal rakes have no shame in the matter.’ He shook the weapon to reinforce his intention to pull the trigger. ‘I can tell he is a villain just by looking at him.’ A pair of rheumy eyes took in the stranger’s slight air of inebriation and dishevelled attire. Even these drawbacks couldn’t disguise the fact he was abominably handsome...and rich. Such expensive tailoring would be cared for by a valet. As for the equipage parked at the kerb, only the wealthiest young bucks took to the road in one of those racy contraptions.

      If the individual under threat feared he might soon expire from a bullet, he gave no sign of it. The Earl of Houndsmere had upon his dark features a wearisome expression.

      ‘Should this business be conducted inside, perhaps?’ he suggested drily and jerked his head to indicate their audience.

      Across the road two kneeling servants had halted their yawning and scrubbing to turn on their steps and gawp at the spectacle of an ancient, garbed in flowing nightgown and tasselled cap, pointing a gun at his daughter’s supposed seducer. Soon the emerging dawn would give way to the glorious spring morning promised by the blush on the horizon. This busy square would begin to throng with people and carriages. How they’d appreciate starting their day viewing this tableau.

      ‘Please, Papa, give me the gun.’ Emma extended a determined hand to take the weapon, but her father stubbornly drew it back towards his chest with a warning growl.

      ‘I’ll not! First I’ll hear his good reason for bringing you back at this hour in the morning. I imagined you to be safe in your bed.’ Mr Waverley gazed fiercely at his daughter. ‘You’re really in trouble now, miss, I hope you realise it.’

      Emma did know that...more than her father yet understood. Worrying as it was, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to shift the blame to hide her culpability. She swept a glance at her saviour from under her lashes, wincing beneath the sardonic glitter in his blue-black eyes. But there was no recrimination. He didn’t regret having stopped to help her. They’d barely spoken to one another, yet she’d wager he wasn’t a man given to questioning his own behaviour. He’d not looked sorry when he’d battered two men for her either.

      With a muttered oath, the younger man sprang up two steps and, gripping the gun muzzle, wrested the weapon out of a set of bony fingers. Its owner looked affronted to have been so easily divested of it.

      The immediate danger past, Emma dashed forward to grip her father’s arm and usher him out of sight of prying eyes.

      Left alone on the pavement, the Earl planted a broad bronzed hand on the rusty railings and examined his torn knuckles. An irate old man shaking an empty duelling pistol at him was a novel experience, although he was no stranger to having a loaded gun pointed at his head by a jealous rival. He was sorely tempted to simply continue on home to find his bed. But with a sigh he took the steps two at a time, keen to get it over with. He entered a dim hallway and closed the door behind him. As all was quiet he stayed where he was, hoping she might have placated her father without his assistance. He wanted to get some sleep, not get drawn into defending his unwise heroics.

      Despite the fact he was suffering the effects of over-indulgence, his breeding had dictated he act properly and accompany the chit indoors to confirm that she was still as innocent as she said she was. How innocent that actually was, was up for debate. The Earl also had his suspicions as to why a genteel young woman would be out alone at such an hour. A black-haired, tawny-eyed beauty, past the first flush of youth, might have a history of slyly seeing her beau. It was possible her father wasn’t as shocked as he was making out at catching her returning to the house at an ungodly hour. But if the wily old cove believed he could act the outraged parent and turn this to his spinster daughter’s advantage he’d find he was much mistaken. The Earl of Houndsmere had been on the receiving end of many an engineered plot to get him to meet a debutante at the altar. All had failed.

      This one looked to have made her come out some time ago. Possibly at around the time his father had died and Lance had resigned his army position to take his birthright. His sister had nagged him into visiting Almack’s balls a couple of times during that Season, hoping he’d find a wife. He didn’t recall seeing his damsel in distress there. And he would have remembered her. He might even have made history by booking a dance instead of spending the evening with like-minded friends, champagne in one hand and Hunter in the other, as they waited for a reasonable time to elapse, allowing them to slip away and seek the company of less decorous ladies. A nostalgic smile tipped up a corner of his mouth as he dwelled on those distant days...

      Emma appeared on the threshold of the parlour to see her reluctant hero looking amused about something. Well, she was glad somebody could smile about it, she thought tetchily. He’d noticed her so she beckoned him, then untied her hat, letting loose an abundance of ebony locks.

      ‘Please join us in here, sir.’ Emma was attempting to apologise for everything with her tone of voice and the expression in her large honey-coloured eyes. The look she received in return both alarmed and annoyed her. He seemed to have some sarcastic comment to make, but was holding it in. Well, she’d not asked him to act knight errant although she had to admit she’d been glad he had. Left to her own devices she might have ended up ravished or murdered, possibly both. She knew that her father believed this stranger had lecherous intentions towards her, but in truth he’d not manhandled her at all. Other than to toss her up into his phaeton to start their hair-raising journey home, they’d not touched again until he’d helped her down outside.

      ‘You can start by introducing yourself, sirrah!’ Impatiently, Bernard Waverley had appeared in the parlour doorway beside his daughter.

      ‘Come and sit down, Papa,’ Emma hastily said, embarrassed by her father’s attitude. ‘You, too, if you will, sir.’ Again, she glanced at the stranger. He appeared to be in two minds whether to comply, or to leave. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to go about his business.

      ‘Lance Harley at your service, sir.’ An indolent bow followed the introduction. He approached Mr Waverley, depositing the pistol on a table as he passed it.

      ‘I know that name.’ Mr Waverley ignored the fellow’s outstretched hand and commenced frowning. ‘Why is that? Have you caused me trouble before, Harley?’

      ‘I’m sure he has not, Papa. You should thank Mr Harley. He has been a boon.’ Emma swiftly took up the story before her father could level more accusations. ‘This gentleman was good enough to stop and rescue me from some footpads and bring me home.’ Her father probably recalled the stranger’s name because the two men frequented the same club. Although with decades separating them in age it was unlikely they shared the same friends. Not that her father had many of those left. ‘I am very sorry for worrying you, Papa, but thankfully no great harm done.’

      ‘No great harm done?’ her father thundered. He pulled off his nightcap, revealing tufts of greying hair, and began marching to and fro across the threadbare rug. ‘We’ll see about that once the tabbies have had time to do their work. You might be past your prime, but you’re still young enough to draw a man’s lust and a woman’s spite.’

      Emma flushed to the roots of her silky black hair. Usually such a remark from her father—quite pertinent as it was—wouldn’t have bothered her. Yet she found having her advanced years bandied about in the presence of this gentleman was mortifying, though she strove not to show it.

      Mr Waverley seemed oblivious to his daughter’s discomfiture. ‘So you were nearly robbed and of more than just your purse, I’ll warrant.’ Agitatedly, he turned to their Good Samaritan. ‘No doubt you’re waiting for my thanks and my coin to keep you quiet about her behaviour. Well, be that as it may, you won’t get any of it. I’ll not reward you for getting involved in her prank.’

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