Please don’t take offense to this request. I am merely arming my weapons.
Regards,
Charlotte Russell
Blayne set the letter aside and frowned. He ought to send his regrets. And yet the idea of letting her suffer some strange man’s attention – to leave her unguarded and alone – caused his heart to contract. Miss Russell deserved the chance to escape her cage and be free. No one, not even her parents, had the right to tie her down and stomp on her dreams.
Expelling a breath, he made his decision. It was just a dinner after all. He’d attend, take his leave, no harm done. His gut tightened with a twinge of guilt. In spite of her fibs and her ploy to place him squarely in the middle of her fight for independence, Miss Russell seemed to be a good person. She certainly didn’t deserve to get involved with a scoundrel, never mind a man who was guilty of murder. Which meant he had to keep his distance from her at all cost. He could not, for any reason, allow himself to forget the role he was meant to play in her life or that they were merely play acting.
Right.
He snatched up the coins she’d included and jangled them loosely in the palm of his hand. It was time for him to pay Guthrie a visit. He’d know exactly where Blayne could find some more fashionable clothes on short notice, and Blayne was not too proud to realize he needed his help.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Guthrie asked roughly one hour later while staring at Blayne as if he’d just set his house on fire.
It took a great deal for anything or anyone to catch the former crime lord by surprise, so Blayne silently congratulated himself before responding. “The blunt Miss Russell is paying will help increase my savings faster than if I didnae accept the job. And besides, I’m nae sure I’d trust anyone else to protect her as well as I can.”
Guthrie stared at him, aghast. “I was referring to the part about you pretending to be her bloody fiancé! How the devil she managed to lure you into that trap I’ve no idea. I just can’t believe you of all people let it happen.” He leaned forward in his chair and pinned Blayne with a hard look. “Are you angling to get under her skirts? Is that it?”
Blayne held Guthrie’s gaze with unflinching determination while he did his best not to let the disparaging comment rile him. “Miss Russell is a lady. For ye to even suggest I’ve such a motive is utterly disgusting. I would have hoped yer opinion of me was higher than that, Guthrie.”
Maintaining a serious mien, Guthrie settled into his seat. “You’re a man, for Christ sake. Allowing yourself to hope for a bit of bed sport in exchange for the favor you’re dealing her would not be completely amiss. Least of all since it’s the only thing that makes sense to me. I mean, you must have considered what helping her like this would mean. Dinner tonight is just the beginning, my friend. I can promise you that.”
“Let’s take one hurdle at a time, shall we?”
Guthrie snorted. “If you wish. Naturally, I’ll help you.”
“Excellent, because I’ll need yer influence with the Home Office.”
“What?”
“I may have suggested to Miss Russell’s parents that I work there as an undercover agent.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
Blayne shrugged. “I needed to explain my appearance.”
“And that was the best you could come up with?” Guthrie shook his head. “This is madness, Blayne – a recipe for disaster. In my opinion, you should let me give you the funds you need to buy whatever land you’re after so you can cut ties with Miss Russell before things get out of hand. If you don’t want to feel indebted, we can call it a loan. Just give me the word and I’ll speak with the bank.”
“Thank ye. I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to make my own way.”
“Why?”
“I reckon the sense of accomplishment will be greater if I dinnae accept any handouts or loans.” What he didn’t mention was the fact that he wasn’t quite ready to walk away from Miss Russell. That would only confirm Guthrie’s theory regarding him wanting her in ways he shouldn’t. Which he did. He might be able to lie to Guthrie about it, but he couldn’t lie to himself. Not when Miss Russell plagued him with increasingly primitive yearnings.
“Nevertheless, the offer remains. In the event you change your mind.” Guthrie held Blayne’s gaze a moment before relaxing his posture. “In the meantime, you’re getting a proper haircut and a shave. My valet will see to that. And once you look presentable, I’ll take you over to The Gentleman’s Emporium where I’m sure we’ll find some appropriate clothes.”
“Is the shave really necessary?” Blayne asked. He’d gotten used to the facial hair and wasn’t sure he wanted to part with it.
For the first time since this meeting had begun, Guthrie grinned. “Oh yes. By the time you arrive at Miss Russell’s home tomorrow evening, you’ll be so dashing her father will not have a single bad thing to say about you. Unless of course you muck it all up the moment you open your mouth. I trust you can still remember a thing or two about proper speech and etiquette. From before?”
They never discussed the before. In the nearly two decades they’d known each other, their pasts had been mentioned only once, right after Blayne had saved Guthrie’s life.
The stab wound Guthrie had been dealt on that long ago winter’s day had left him in a fitful state. Later, while Blayne nursed him back to health, he’d revealed things in his fevered sleep. When he’d recovered and Blayne had questioned him, the truth had gradually seeped out. In exchange, Blayne had allowed Guthrie a glimpse of his own story, and in so doing, had forged an unbreakable bond.
Blayne answered the question with a nod. He’d attended Eton as a boy for the purpose of, as his Da had put it, forging lifelong connections within the peerage and learning how to fit in with the Brits. In Blayne’s opinion, it had been more about prestige than anything else, but the teachers had certainly done their part to beat the ‘uncouthness’ out of him. As a consequence, he’d learned to pronounce his words with proper diction within a fortnight.
“What about dancing?”
“There’ll be nae dancing.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Quite.”
“Very well.” Guthrie didn’t sound the least bit convinced, but at least he’d agreed to drop the subject. “Let’s get on with it then. Shall we?”
Dressed in a gown of turquoise silk and with crystal-tipped pins adorning her hair, Charlotte descended the stairs to the foyer. Her white satin gloves stretched past her elbows, leaving only an inch of bare flesh on display between them and the edge of her puff sleeves. Not that this should disappoint a man hoping to see more skin. The décolletage was low enough to satisfy any wandering gaze. It was fashionable, of course, but to Charlotte’s way of thinking it did seem odd that women could put most of their bosom on public display while it was considered improper to show off an ankle.
She paused in front of the hallway mirror. Perhaps she should have worn a fichu? Not so much for Mr. MacNeil’s sake, but rather because she wasn’t too keen on Mr. Cooper ogling her the entire evening. It certainly wasn’t with him in mind that she’d picked out the dress. On the contrary, an unkempt Scotsman had prompted that decision.