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Runaway Miss
Mary Nichols
Just who is Miss Fanny Draper? Alexander, Viscount Malvers, is sure the beautiful girl on the public coach is not who she says she is. Her shabby clothing and claim of being a companion cannot hide the fact that she is Quality. He's intrigued. This captivating miss is definitely running away, but from what-or whom?Alex is adept at getting under her guard, but Lady Emma Lindsay must keep up the pretence. As her feelings grow, so does her dilemma. Maybe a lady can follow her heart, but a poor companion certainly can't-and Miss Fanny Draper she must remain!
My God, she was beautiful!
He wanted to pull her into his arms to kiss her, but she was not the sort of woman you could do that to—not suddenly and for no reason. What in heaven’s name was she doing here, wandering among the buttercups and daisies, miles from home? Who was she?
He felt it too, this strange alchemy, and he supposed it had been there from the start of this strange journey. It was why he was determined to escort her, even when she made it plain she did not want an escort. It wasn’t only the mystery surrounding her—perhaps there was no mystery and she was exactly what she said she was—it was something about the girl herself. Her beauty, her courage and independence, all the attributes he had said would make her unfit to be a lady’s companion, were the very things which drew him to her.
Runaway Miss
Harlequin
Historical
MARY NICHOLS
Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren.
Runaway Miss
MARY NICHOLS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Available from Harlequin
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Prologue
1816
It was almost dawn, the eastern sky over the chimney pots of St James’s bore a distinct pink tinge, and soon the sun’s rays would penetrate to the level of the street and the creatures of the night, human and animal, would disappear and those of the day make an appearance. But the gentlemen sitting at the card table in the gaming room of Brooks’s club were unaware of the time. The heavy curtains in the room were drawn against the windows and the only light was from the lamps that had been burning all night, so that now the room was stuffy and malodorous.
The previous evening it had been crowded, all the tables filled, but as midnight approached the first players began to leave, followed by others until, by three in the morning, only one foursome remained intent on their game. Hovering over them, wishing he could go home to his bed, was a liveried, bewigged footman whose task it was to make sure their glasses remained full. Except what was necessary to further the game, no one had spoken for hours.
The four men—Lord Cecil Bentwater, Sir George Tasker, Mr Jeremy Maddox and Viscount Alexander Malvers—were so absorbed that the time of day, even the day of the week, hunger or families and servants patiently waiting for them to come home meant nothing at all. Lord Bentwater, who had the largest pile of coins and vowels beside his elbow, was in his middle to late fifties, dressed entirely in black, unrelieved except for a white neckcloth in which reposed a glittering diamond pin. He had a pasty complexion and dark glittering eyes.
Sir George Tasker was a year or two younger, dressed in a single-breasted green coat, a waistcoat of cream satin embroidered with silver thread and a fine lawn shirt with lace flounces protruding from the sleeves. He wore several rings, a crumpled neckcloth and a quizzing glass dangling from his thick neck. A film of perspiration caked his face. His dark eyes were wary and a twitch in his jaw told of a man reaching the end of his tether.
Mr Jeremy Maddox was just twenty-one, a tulip of the first order. His shirt-collar points stood up against his cheeks and his cravat was tied in a flamboyant bow, the ends of which cascaded over his sky blue waistcoat. Undoubtedly his doting mama would have been horrified if she could see the company he was keeping.
The fourth man at the table, Viscount Alexander Malvers, was very different, both in appearance and demeanour. He eschewed the fanciful garb of the pink of the ton, for a well-cut cloth coat of forest green, a white waistcoat and a sensibly tied cravat. At thirty years old, he had come back from service in the Peninsula and Waterloo in one piece and was thankful for it. He was not a habitual gambler, certainly not for higher stakes than he could afford, and had only consented to make up the four when Count Vallon dropped out.
He had been watching them for some time before that and had come to the conclusion that Lord Bentwater was far too clever for Sir George—the latter, if he had had any sense, should have paid up and left long ago. Alex had joined them out of curiosity to see how far Sir George was prepared to go before throwing in the towel. Years in the army when boredom was, more often than not, the order of the day had taught Alex to be a skilled card player and he was prudent in the way he played so that he was a little on the plus side, but not by much. Now he, like the waiter, wished only for his bed.
‘Well, George?’ Bentwater broke the silence. ‘Do you go on?’
‘You’ll take my voucher?’
‘I’ve a drawer full of your vouchers at home, George. Ain’t it time you began honouring them?’
‘Drawer full?’ Sir George looked decidedly worried. ‘I never gave you above three that I can remember.’
‘I bought the rest.’
Sir George was startled. ‘Why?’
‘An investment, my friend. Got them for half their face value, some of the older ones even less than that, since their holders had given up hope of being paid.’
‘In that case you don’t expect me to honour them for the full amount, do you?’
‘Oh, dear me, yes. Plus interest, of course.’
‘I can’t, you know I can’t.’
‘Why not? I thought when you married the widow, you were made for life.’
‘So did I,’ George said despondently. ‘I was gulled.’
‘You mean she had no money?’ Bentwater roared with laughter, though it was not a happy sound. ‘Oh, that’s a great jest.’
‘There was money there, all right, but she didn’t have the spending of it. Her baboon of a husband left her a small annuity and tied all the rest up for the daughter.’
‘Then you should have married the daughter, George. How old is she?’
‘Twenty now, eighteen when I married her mother.’
‘Old enough to be married,’ Bentwater said, thoughtfully tapping his wine glass against his rotting teeth.
‘I didn’t know she was the heiress at the time or I might have done. Now it’ll all go to whatever cock-brained cabbage marries her.’
‘Then, George, you had better make sure she marries where it will do you most good,’ Bentwater advised. ‘You need her dibs to pay off your debts.’
‘Then you had best tell me how that is to be done, Cecil, since the solution eludes me.’
‘Is she comely?’
‘She is. Fair face. Good teeth. Fine figure. Tall…’
‘How tall?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I am an inch short of six feet and overtop her by two or three inches or thereabouts. What do you want to know that for?’
‘It ain’t right for a wife to be taller than her husband.’
‘True.’
‘And she has a fortune, you say?’
‘Will have. Until she marries it is administered by trustees. Thirty thousand a year at least. And I can’t lay my hands on any of it.’ It was said bitterly.
