The Gentleman Thief. Deborah Simmons

was a measure of her own flustered state that she did not note where Ashdowne had obtained the garment or that she did not find his rather intimate study annoying. Indeed, she knew a strange sort of thrill to have attracted his attention in that manner, which was only fair considering that the very sight of him usually reduced her to an unparalleled state of idiocy.

      Ashdowne, however, looked none the worse for his brief display of interest. His expression was that of a man wearied beyond endurance, and Georgiana began feeling like a bug again. If only she could actually sprout wings and fly away…

      “I suspect these disasters are all part and parcel of your unusual…pursuits, but I’m beginning to think that you need someone to keep you out of mischief,” he said.

      Georgiana blinked. Surely a marquis would not bother himself to complain to her father about her? Nor, as far as she knew, were there any laws against accidents such as the one that had just taken place.

      What could the man possibly do to her? Georgiana wondered. But then he smiled, his elegant lips moving into a positively decadent curve that well answered her question. Anything he wants, she thought with the last of her wits.

      “And since I seem to be the one most affected by your antics, perhaps I should apply for that position,” he said, stunning her speechless.

       Chapter Three

      Johnathon Everett Saxton, fifth Marquis of Ashdowne, lifted one dark brow in surprise at the expression on his companion’s face. Over the years, he had received a wide variety of looks from the ladies, but never had one eyed him with anything bordering on alarm. As usual, Miss Georgiana Bellewether’s reaction was far from ordinary.

      Perhaps his offer to act as a sort of keeper for the errant young woman was none too flattering, but her obvious dismay was not exactly what he had anticipated. The Saxon good looks and a certain rakish charm had assured Ashdowne of more than his share of the fair sex, while now, as marquis, he received far too much attention for his taste. Somehow the thought of being sought only for his title put a damper on his previous enthusiasm.

      But Miss Bellewether could hardly be accused of chasing after his name, Ashdowne mused. Although the chit ought to be grateful for his attention, she appeared flustered, irritated and nearly panicked, as if she found him objectionable in some way. Apparently it was his misfortune that the only woman who was not inclined to be his marchioness was some kind of lunatic. A dangerous lunatic, he qualified grimly.

      He had not suspected as much at first. Upon sighting her at Lady Culpepper’s ball, Ashdowne had been momentarily taken with the young lady, as would any normal male, for Georgiana Bellewether had a body that might cause a lesser man to drool into his neck cloth. With those lush curves, that mop of blond curls and the delicate oval face of an angel, she would have been toasted as a diamond of the first water in London, with offers flying at her head, despite her simple background. Or she could have reigned over the demimonde as the most sought after of cyprians.

      Of course, all that success was dependant upon her silence—and her stillness, Ashdowne thought. Unfortunately, once Georgiana Bellewether began moving, all hell was inclined to break loose, for she was probably the clumsiest creature in all of Christendom. A veritable accident in the making, she had managed to knock him to the floor last night, an ignominious experience that still stung. Luckily the tumble hadn’t hurt anything except his pride, or else the evening might have gone awry in more ways than one.

      But that episode was the least of it. Since then, she had hit him with the world’s heaviest reticule and single-handedly brought down an entire orchestra. Ashdowne would never view the words strike up the band in quite the same light again.

      Not only was she disaster prone, but the young woman fancied herself some sort of investigator! Although nearly every man at the ball had a theory about the Culpepper robbery, few would claim themselves capable of catching the thief, and certainly no lady would admit interest in such things! Ashdowne didn’t know whether to laugh or ship her off to Bedlam.

      And so he did neither, but watched her carefully. Long ago, he had learned to listen to his instincts, which were buzzing and hissing most alarmingly in connection with Miss Bellewether. Perhaps it was the physical danger she represented to anyone fool enough to get close to her, or something else. Ashdowne didn’t know.

      He had to admit to some curiosity as to what disaster would next follow in her wake, so possibly his interest amounted to nothing more than the same bizarre fascination that drew people to public hangings. It was only human nature to want to witness calamity, and despite the past stifling year, Ashdowne still called himself human. Whatever the reason, like a man flirting with his own doom, he could not seem to ignore Miss Georgiana Bellewether.

      She was diverting, to say the least, and barring the recent trouble with his sister-in-law, Ashdowne could not remember when he had last been so intrigued. It was startling to realize just how mundane his life had become since assuming the title. He had not set out to embrace a life of boredom. Far from it, for he had always held his stolid, conservative brother somewhat in contempt.

      It was only after that gentleman had keeled over from apoplexy and the title had been thrust upon him that Ashdowne had realized what a tiresome business it all was. Of course, he could have refused the responsibilities that fell to him, but too many people, from farm tenants to servants staffing the family seat, depended upon him now. And so he had immersed himself in the business of being Ashdowne, and although he didn’t regret it, he felt as if he had been swimming for some time and had just now come up for air. Only to find himself in a fog induced by the young lady at his side.

      “This, uh, really isn’t necessary,” Miss Bellewether said. She spoke in a breathless voice, as though she had barely recovered after her misadventure in the Pump Room, and certainly a dousing with Bath water could steal your breath away. Ashdowne knew his had been sadly short after just looking at her, especially when the wet muslin had clung so delightfully to her pert nipples.

      He forced his thoughts in a different direction. Gad, he must have been too long without a woman if he could be stirred by this wretched female! “Let me at least see you home,” he said, smoothly stifling his wayward lust. “Where are you staying?”

      Ashdowne listened with approval to her mumbled direction, though he knew her address already. He made it his business to learn everything that might impact upon him and his plans, and he had discovered all that he could about the bothersome Miss Bellewether, Lady Culpepper having proven quite helpful in that regard.

      The outraged matron had complained at length about the impertinent young woman who invited herself in only to claim that she was going to solve the theft. And all through Lady Culpepper’s shrill diatribe, Ashdowne had struggled with his own incredulity. He knew that common citizens rarely bothered to intervene in a criminal case, let alone a genteel female. What was the chit about?

      Ashdowne’s gaze traveled to the lady in question, though he found it difficult to equate the self-proclaimed investigator with those bobbing blond curls. He shook his head in wonder. Obviously Miss Bellewether had recovered herself, for she no longer clung fiercely to the shawl he had borrowed from a matron, but neither did she seem at ease. She was staring straight ahead, her chin lifted, as if prepared to make some pronouncement, and Ashdowne found himself leaning close to hear her next inanity.

      “I appreciate your assistance, my lord, but I assure you that I am not singling you out for any sort of…”

      “Torture?” Ashdowne suggested wryly.

      Although he had not thought her capable of it, the little miss made a face that evidenced some backbone behind that beribboned and beruffled exterior. Tossing her gorgeous curls, Miss Bellewether gave him a mutinous expression that Ashdowne found oddly charming. He must be truly desperate for diversion. “But, tell me, how is the investigation going?” he asked, to deflect her wrath.

      Miss Bellewether, however, did not look appeased. “It is going quite well!” she answered, as if daring him to dispute her. “In fact, I am quite certain of the identities of the perpetrators.”

      “Perpetrators?”