The Lord of Lost Causes Read online

  To her dismay, the George and Dragon seemed far more crowded than usual. It wasn’t even a Friday, which was when most people got paid, so she hadn’t been expecting the place to be full. It took her quite a while to push her way through to the bar where a thin blond woman was dispensing tankards of ale and spirits with a speed and accuracy that astounded Caroline.

  She managed to catch the woman’s attention and shouted. “I’m looking for Mr. Keswick. Is he here?”

  The barmaid cast her a curious look and pointed to a door at the back. “If he’s here, he’ll be inside with his highness.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline yelled, but the woman had already turned away. She forced herself to go toward the thick arched oak door. She didn’t bother to knock. No one within would hear her in this racket. It took but a moment to lift the latch and whisk herself inside. Warmth, silence, and the alluring smell of brandy made her catch her breath and flatten herself against the door panels.

  A man sat by the fire, his booted feet anchored on the fender. One hand grasped a glass of brandy the other turned over the pages of a large book filled with columns. Whoever he was, he definitely wasn’t Mr. Keswick. This man was dressed in the height of country fashion, his top boots gleaming, his coat a subtle tweed that perfectly accented his white shirt and black waistcoat.

  “I beg your pardon, I was looking for Mr. Keswick.” Caroline stuttered.

  The man looked up. His face was tanned, his black hair too long for convention, and his light hazel eyes were the coldest she had ever seen.

  She fumbled behind her and managed to find the door handle. “I’ll just…”

  He held up his hand. “Why do you want to see Billy Keswick?”

  His voice was low and held the arrogant pitch of command Caroline associated with the upper-class military men from her childhood.

  “I wanted to give him my rent money.”

  The man leaned back in his chair and regarded her. She reckoned he was in his thirties, but it was hard to tell when his skin was so bronzed. She wondered if he had been in the military in India, and if he’d ever come across her father’s family.

  “Keswick told you to meet him here?”

  “I believe he lives here, sir.” Caroline frowned, “Do you know him, then?”

  “I do. What I don’t understand is why he would invite you here.”

  Caroline felt her cold cheeks heat. “I’m not sure if that is any of your concern, sir.”

  “And if I make it my concern?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  He shrugged. “Because I’m damnably bored, and you look as if you are about to burst into tears if you don’t achieve whatever it is you came here to do.”

  Caroline raised her chin. “I have no intention of crying. I will simply leave you in peace, find Mr. Keswick, and conclude my business with him alone.”

  His smile lightened the coldness in his face if not his eyes. “I appreciate your spirit, my dear.” He got to his feet and Caroline tensed as she realized how tall he was. “Would you like to sit by the fire? You look a little chilled.”

  She clenched the coins in her pocket until the cold metal bit into her fingers. “I fear I cannot stay. I have to find Mr. Keswick.”

  He withdrew a gold watch from his pocket and consulted it. “And if I tell you that I am expecting Keswick to attend me here in five minutes, will you condescend to wait for him until then?”

  Caroline stared longingly at the fire. “If you are certain I will not disturb you.”

  He bowed. “Not at all. In fact, I suspect you will enliven my evening considerably.”

  Caroline took the seat opposite, and he sat down and contemplated her over his brandy glass. “Does Keswick always require you to deliver your rent to his lodgings in person? Don’t you have a husband somewhere waiting for his dinner?”

  There was no denying his insinuation this time. Caroline tried desperately to think of a crushing reply, but she was so tired that her tongue seemed to have twisted itself into a knot.

  “I’m a widow and, no, I’ve never come here to see Mr. Keswick before.”

  “So why the urgency today?”

  Caroline sighed as the warmth of the fire swept over her. “Because I couldn’t find the rent when he called, and I promised to bring it to him later.”

  “Ah.” The man sipped his brandy again. “Keswick obviously takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

  “Mr. Keswick…” Caroline just stopped the rash words from spilling from her mouth and stared down at her work-roughened hands. “I believe Mr. Keswick enjoys his job, sir, if that is what you mean.”

  “Your tone implies that he enjoys himself a little too much.”

  Caroline shrugged. “I can hardly blame him for that. He is only the rent-collector, not the owner of the properties. I suspect his desire to collect every penny owed is to avoid angering his master.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She looked up to find his amused gaze fixed on her. “Because Mr. Keswick is a bully, and only a bigger bully would be able to keep him so anxious to please.”

  This time the man’s smile reached his eyes and made him look almost approachable. “Have you experienced Mr. Keswick’s bullying nature yourself? You do not seem the sort of woman who is easily cowed.”

  “I am not, sir.” A flicker of hope coalesced in her chest. Was it possible that she could persuade this aristocrat to feel sorry enough for her, a woman of obvious class, who had fallen on hard times, that he would intercede with Mr. Keswick on her behalf? “But even I cannot survive without a roof over my head.”

  “Keswick threatened to throw you out even though you have the rent?”

  Caroline opened her eyes wide and tried to look wistful. “I fear I do not have quite enough money to pay him, sir, but he suggested…” she looked down in what she hoped he would interpret as maidenly confusion. “He suggested that, I, a poor widow, might make up the rent by sharing my favors with him.”

  “He did what?”

  The gentleman’s obvious fury gave Caroline even more hope. And, as if he’d been primed to arrive at exactly the right moment, Mr. Keswick came through the door and stared in surprise at Caroline.

  The gentleman rose to his feet, his expression lethal.

  “Keswick, what is this I hear about you letting tenants off rent if they’ll bed you?”

  Mr. Keswick flushed a dark red and cast a hostile glance at Caroline who tried not to smile.

  “I never said that, sir, I would never…” Mr. Keswick blustered and stuttered until the man cut him off with a decisive gesture.

  “That is not acceptable to me in any circumstances. No one, no matter how pretty they are, gets away without paying their rent in full.”

  Caroline’s smile froze, and she stared in horror at the dark-haired man as a horrible suspicion wormed its way into her head.

  He turned to her and bowed. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself to you earlier, ma’am. I’m Captain Francis Grafton—your bully of a landlord.”

  Chapter 2

  Francis Grafton couldn’t help but admire how quickly the woman masked her shock at his deliberately provocative announcement. At first sight he’d taken her for the latest in a long line of Keswick’s sluts, but when she’d opened her mouth he’d realized that beneath her grimy exterior lurked the essence of a true lady. She was the kind of woman he was used to encountering in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London rather than the back parlor of the George and Dragon in industrial Millcastle.

  And he’d always liked the unusual.

  “May I know your name, Mrs.…?”

  She bobbed him a small curtsey, her teeth set into her lush lower lip. “I’m Mrs. Harding, Captain Grafton.” She held out some coins to him. “Perhaps I should pay you my rent directly.”

  He admired both her steady voice, and the resolution in her grey eyes.

  “With the same benefits?”

  She blushed but refused to drop he
r gaze. “I haven’t offered anything to anyone yet, sir —except my coin.”

  He held out his hand. She moved closer to drop the money into his palm and he inhaled the familiar tang of cheap soap and damp wool that was so common in Millcastle. He knew from harsh experience how difficult it was to keep clean in a house with no indoor plumbing. With one finger, he slowly counted the meager collection of coins and then raised his head.

  “What exactly is Mrs. Harding’s rent, Keswick?”

  “It’s three shillings a week, sir.”

  Francis looked back at Mrs. Harding. “Then you are a shilling short.”

  “I know.”

  She took a deep breath that drew his attention to her shawl-swathed bosom. Idly, he wondered what lay beneath the well-patched clothing and thick woolen shawl. Her hair was a dull dark brown and braided tightly to her head. She reminded him of some kind of drab woodland bird bathing in the dust. He imagined she was in her twenties, and yet she was already a widow. Had she run away from her comfortable home and married a mill hand or a servant? Was that what had brought her so low?

  “I intend to pay the rest of the money tomorrow.”

  “When you’ve been to the pawn shop?”

  Mrs. Harding looked surprised at his intimate knowledge of how things were managed in the slums of Millcastle. She obviously had no idea how deeply he was involved in every aspect of Three Coins—right up to his sinful well-laundered cravat.

  She glanced down at her left hand, and he noticed the gleam of a gold ring on her finger.

  “I will have the money tomorrow, sir.”

  Something in her quiet declaration piqued his interest even further, and he contemplated her for a long moment. He hadn’t expected to find such a challenge in his own back yard. “And what if I had another arrangement in mind?”

  This time she couldn’t conceal the flash of distaste in her eyes. He wanted to smile as she struggled to form a reply.

  “I…”

  Billy Keswick cleared his throat and stared beseechingly at his employer. Did the old fool think Francis would order Mrs. Harding to service him as originally agreed? In his opinion, Mrs. Harding was far too fine a piece to waste on his crude rent collector.

  “Keswick, you may leave us. I’ll expect to see you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning to go over the books.“ Francis paused and watched the sweat gather on Mr. Keswick’s brow. “There are several discrepancies in the accounts I wish to discuss with you.”

  “All right then, sir.” Keswick shot him an angry glance and headed for the door.

  “And, Keswick? Please ask Nancy to send in my dinner, and to bring enough for two.”

  He turned his attention back to Mrs. Harding who was watching him as intently as a mouse confronted by a hungry tomcat. “You will share my dinner, Mrs. Harding, won’t you?”

  “I have to get back to my family, sir.”

  “You have children?”

  “No, but I have two sisters and a mother to take care of, and they need their dinner….”

  As she turned toward the door, Francis held out a shilling between his finger and thumb. “I’ll forgo the remainder of the rent for this week if you’ll stay for dinner and answer my questions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m bored, and you interest me.”

  Her gaze went to the shilling, and she hesitated. “Just for dinner?”

  He smiled into her wary eyes. “You value yourself so cheaply?”

  A flash of anger enlivened her face. “Surely the shame should rest on the one who has to pay for things that should be given freely, and within the bonds of holy matrimony, rather than with the one being bought?”

  “Let’s just start with dinner, shall we?” Francis tossed her the shilling, and she caught it reflexively. “Perhaps we can discuss our views on matrimony over the soup.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Nancy entered carrying a heavy tray piled high with dishes. Behind her came Tom, the tavern boy, with a small folding card table and a trailing linen cloth.

  Francis moved out of the way and directed Tom to set the table by the fire. When the tray was safely set on top of the table, Nancy gave a recital of the culinary delights that awaited them, casting many a curious glance at Mrs. Harding. Tom left and then returned again with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  Eventually all was settled to Francis’s satisfaction, and he beckoned Mrs. Harding to the table where Tom had also set two chairs.

  “Are you hungry, Mrs. Harding? I must confess I am famished myself, having ridden up from London this morning.”

  She took the seat he held out for her and stared at the food. He wondered how long it was since she’d sat down to a proper meal. He wanted to caution her not to eat too fast, but feared it would embarrass her further, and he didn’t want that. He wanted her to relax and enjoy the meal so that he could weigh her potential as a future mistress for when he had to return to Millcastle.

  He poured wine into the two crystal glasses and placed one by her plate. The food might be inadequate, but at least he knew the wine would be good.

  He held up his glass. “To your continued good health, Mrs. Harding.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She picked up her own glass, and then stared at it as if she didn’t know what to do next.

  Francis sipped his wine and she followed suit, her eyes widening as she swallowed. He liked a woman who could appreciate a fine wine. It usually indicated that her other appetites would be just as sharp.

  “The wine is to your liking, ma’am?”

  “It is exceptional, sir, although as I haven’t drunk anything stronger than tea and ale for the last two years. I could be mistaken.” She set the glass down on the table with a definite thump. “And I fear that will have to do. I’m not accustomed to strong spirits anymore.”

  “You haven’t taken to drinking gin, then?”

  She glared at him. “Not quite yet.”

  “Excellent.” He smiled at her and indicated the food. “It’s not called Mother’s Ruin for nothing. Would you like me to serve you?”

  She eyed the laden plates as if he was offering her poison and shook her head. “No thank you. I’d rather help myself.”

  “Then please, be my guest.” He watched in some amusement as she took several small servings and put them carefully on her plate. She retained enough sense and good enough table manners not to attempt to stuff everything into her mouth at once. In his time of need, he hadn’t been so restrained and had ended up vomiting everything he’d eaten. He pushed that thought away and loaded his plate. He’d never be starving again. Of that he was certain.

  Mrs. Harding ate slowly, savoring every mouthful with a rich appreciation that made him want to enjoy it with her and to feed her choice morsels from his plate. After a little while, she seemed to remember her manners and looked up at him.

  “Are you planning on staying in Millcastle long, Captain Grafton?”

  “I’m not sure. I have business interests in many parts of the country.”

  “I have to admit that it is not a place I would choose to spend my days either.”

  “Then why live here?” Francis asked as he topped up his wine glass.

  “Because I have no choice.”

  “A fine looking woman like you must have many choices.”

  “To become a man’s mistress do you mean?”

  He liked that about her, the way she reacted so directly to a challenge. Since he’d regained his fortune, he’d grown tired of women simpering over him. “Is that not a career that appeals to you?”

  “It’s hardly a career, is it, Captain? However high they fly, most prostitutes end up dying on the streets with nothing.”

  “Except the pox.”

  She grimaced. “Exactly. I would rather earn my money in a less dangerous way.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  She glared at him. “You’d prefer to see me on the streets, Captain?”

  “I’d prefer to see you s
tretched out naked in my bed, Mrs. Harding.”

  “I hardly think you need to insult me.” She put her knife and fork down and went to rise. Francis reached across and caught her elbow.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Harding. You agreed to share your dinner with me.” Under his fingers, her arm was stiff and unyielding. “You still owe me a shilling, remember?”

  She sat back down and refused to look at him. “And what if I have finished my dinner? May I go then?”

  “I believe in polite society it is customary to wait until all the diners have finished before the ladies withdraw, is it not?”

  “You are hardly being polite, sir.”

  He smiled. “No, I am not. But then, you are not the hostess of this particular gathering either, are you?”

  She bit down on her lip and concentrated her attention on her plate. Francis allowed a few minutes to pass before he broached his next question.

  “You still haven’t told me why you live in Millcastle.”

  “It is my home.”

  “You do not sound as if you hail from here.”

  “My late husband’s family was from here. After his death I assumed…” she paused, “I hoped they would welcome me into their home.”

  “And they did not?”

  “They felt unwilling to extend that invitation to my mother and sisters.”

  “And they threw you out?”

  “Not quite, Captain. I chose to leave.”

  “How very foolish of you.” She blushed but didn’t answer him. “What was your husband’s occupation?”

  “He was in the navy.”

  “And he died on duty?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard and took a hasty sip of her wine. “He drowned when the vessel he was on was wrecked on the rocks in Cornwall.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “Indeed.”

  “One that left you all alone.”

  “Apart from my family.”

  “Your father is no longer alive either?” Francis asked.

  “That is correct.”