Regency Rogues: Stolen Sins. Julia Justiss

she could hardly breathe. If she were given to melodrama, she might have swooned.

      Taking a deep breath, she shook her head, trying to recover her equilibrium. ‘I hope you will be equally amicable about according your vote to Mr Armsburn?’ she asked, pleased her voice held a calm she was far from feeling.

      His smile faded. ‘I hate to disoblige a lady, but I’m afraid I’m here to support Mr Reynolds.’

      ‘The radical Mr Reynolds? Oh, dear!’ she exclaimed, her disappointment greater than it should have been. ‘I fear our politics will not be in agreement, then, Mr—’

      Before the gentleman could answer, a tide of men washed out of the tavern across the street. ‘Free beer, free men, free vote!’ they chanted, pushing into the square. From the corner, a group of men wearing the green armbands of her cousin’s supporters surged forward. ‘Tories for justice!’ they cried, shoving against the free-vote supporters. Several of the tussling men fell back against her horse, causing the gelding to rear up and fight the traces. Alarmed, she tugged on the reins, but the panicked animal fought the bit.

      The gentleman jumped forward to seize the bridle, settling the nervous horse back on his feet. ‘You should get away in case this turns ugly,’ he advised. Making liberal use of his cane to clear a path, he led the horse and carriage through the throng and on to a side street.

      ‘There’s a quiet inn down Farmer’s Lane,’ he told her when they’d turned the corner. ‘I’ll see you safely there, then locate your cousin.’

      She opened her lips to assure him she’d be fine on her own, but in truth, the sudden rancour of the crowd, the shouts and sounds of scuffling still reaching them from the square, disturbed her more than she wished to admit. ‘I would appreciate that,’ she said instead.

      Within a few moments, they reached the inn, the gentlemen sent the horse and carriage off with an ostler and offered her his arm into the establishment. ‘A private parlour for Lady Margaret, and some cheese and ale,’ he told the innkeeper who hurried to greet them.

      ‘At once, sir, my lady!’ the proprietor said, ushering them to a small room off the busy taproom.

      Once she was inside, shielded from the view of the curious, the gentleman bowed. ‘It is Lady Margaret, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. But I don’t believe we have been introduced, have we? I’m sure I would have remembered you.’ No woman under ninety with eyes in her head and any sense of appreciation for the male of the species could have met this man and forgotten him.

      ‘We’ve not been formally presented—a lapse I am delighted to rectify. But the Borough of Chellingham has long been in the pocket of the Marquess of Witlow, so what other lovely lady could be canvassing for his candidate than his daughter, the celebrated Lady Margaret?’

      ‘Oh, dear! That makes me sound rather…notorious.’

      He shook his head. ‘Admired and respected—even by your opponents. I don’t believe the squabbles outside will escalate into actual violence, but with “free beer” and elections, one can’t be sure. Promise me you’ll remain here until your cousin can fetch you. Though I cannot help but feel a man lucky to have so lovely a canvasser working on his behalf should take better care of her.’

      ‘How can I thank you for your kindness—and to a supporter of your opponent?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you at least allow me to offer you a glass of ale? I hate to admit it, but I would feel easier if I had some company while I…calm my nerves.’

      That might have been overstating the case—but for once, Maggie didn’t mind imposing on the gentleman’s obvious sense of chivalry, if it meant she could command his company for a bit longer.

      And discover more about the most arresting man she’d met in a very long time.

      He smiled then—setting those sapphire eyes sparkling, and once again sending shivers over her skin. ‘I wouldn’t want to leave you…unsettled.’

      Oh, the rogue! She bit back a laugh, halfway tempted to rebuke him. Those knowing eyes said he knew exactly how he ‘unsettled her’ and didn’t regret it a bit.

      With that handsome figure, fascinating eyes and seductive smile, he’d probably unsettled quite a few ladies, her sense of self-preservation argued. It would be prudent to send him on his way before he tempted her to join their number.

      After all, she’d had a lengthy page from that book, and wanted never to pen another.

      But despite the voice of reason, she didn’t want to let him go.

      The landlord hurried in with her victuals on a tray, offering her a perfect excuse to delay. ‘You will allow the innkeeper to bring you a tankard of his excellent home brewed? Mr Carlson, isn’t it?’ she asked, turning to the proprietor. ‘My cousin, Mr Armsburn, told me you have the best ale in Chellingford. I know he’s drunk many a pint when coming through to campaign.’

      ‘That he has, Lady Margaret, and bought rounds for the taproom, too,’ Carlson replied. ‘I’m happy to stand a mug to any of his supporters.’ After giving them a quick bow, he hurried back out.

      ‘Now, that is largesse you cannot refuse,’ she told her rescuer.

      ‘Even if I’m accepting it under false pretences?’

      ‘We needn’t upset Mr Carlson by telling him that. He’s been a Tory voter for many years.’

      ‘No wonder you charm the electorate—if you know even the names of the local innkeepers.’

      She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course I know them. One cannot represent the best interests of the district unless one knows the people who live there, and their needs. But you have the advantage; you know who I am, but have not yet given me your name. All I know is that you’re misguided enough to support a Radical.’

      He laughed, as she’d meant he should, and made her an exaggerated bow. ‘Giles Hadley, ma’am, at your service.’

      The note of challenge in his tone puzzled her for the few seconds it took for the name to register. ‘Giles Hadley!’ she repeated with a gasp. ‘The leader of the Hellions, the infamous Viscount Lyndlington—although you do not use the title, do you? Should I be expecting a whiff of fire and brimstone?’

      He laughed again. ‘Rumours of our exploits have been highly exaggerated! I doubt we were any more given to frequenting taverns and consorting with the, um, gentle ladies who worked there than most undergraduates. We just patronised a humbler class of establishment, and consulted, rather than patronised, the patrons.’

      ‘So what was this about being hell-bound?’

      He shrugged. ‘One of the dons who was a clergyman heard that, if we ever had the power, we would eliminate churchmen’s seats in the Lords. The sacrilege of wanting to upset the established order, along with our “dissolute” activities, led him to denounce us all as the Devil’s minions. As for my title as a viscount, it’s only a courtesy accorded to the son of an earl. I prefer to be known for what I’ve accomplished.’

      ‘Which is quite a bit, I understand! I’ve heard so much about you!’

      ‘If you heard it from my half-brother George, no wonder you’ve been imagining me with wings and a forked tail,’ he said drily.

      She shook her head. ‘Most of what I know comes from my father and his associates—who see you as a rising star in the Whigs. My father, who does not praise lightly, has several times lamented that Lord Newville managed to snag you for the Reform cause before he could persuade you to join the Tories. I am honoured to make the acquaintance of a man so esteemed by my father!’

      And she was—awed enough at meeting the man even his opponents spoke of as likely one day to become Prime Minister that for an instant, she forgot his physical allure.

      But only for an instant. With her next breath, the shock of learning his identity was once again subsumed in awareness of the powerful