Page 12 of Undoubtedly Reckless (Rebel by Night #2)

Hazards of Tea

Roland entered the drawing room and once again barely dodged a knife that could have taken his ear.

The collection of ladies in his drawing room stared at him, and he stared back without expression. He left the room without a word and returned with an archery target, which he set up by a wall.

“There. No people or books will be at risk. We discussed this, Princess,”

Roland said to Aria.

“I don’t recall that conversation,”

Aria said blithely. “Oh, ladies, do be at ease. My brother has no room to criticize how we spend our leisure.”

“I support a woman’s pursuit of defense with my whole being,”

Roland said. “I would prefer some notice, though.”

“I told you we were having tea with the Villiers today,”

Aria said in exasperation.

“I don’t recall that conversation,”

Roland mimicked.

“In any event,”

Aria wrinkled her nose at him, “I would like to borrow the falchion from your study.”

“It’s too heavy for you,”

he retorted.

“That’s the idea. The more we work with the heavy weapons, the easier it will be to wield the lighter options that might be to hand,”

Aria said.

“Such as fire pokers,”

Lenoir said.

“Lord save me,”

Roland muttered. “Mrs. Kembrooke, would you assist me in my capacity as armorer?”

“With delight,”

Sabina said demurely, setting her cup down. Roland stood correctly as Sabina preceded him to the hall.

“This way, please.”

Roland gestured to the left. “How have you been?”

he asked quietly.

Roland perused her person thoroughly, as if he could see through her dress to her bruises. She was not limping. She wore a fichu and a shawl, so he could not check her neck for bruises.

“I am quite well, thank you,”

Sabina said, glancing up at him quickly.

He hated that she was acting the servant with him. This was not his Sabina. “I could not think of how to return the scarf. I will send it tomorrow and use a common name, please let your doorman know.”

“Keep it, it is my gift to you,”

Roland said, letting Sabina into his study. “And there is something else. It is quite fortuitous you came today. I also did not know how to present this to you.”

Sabina looked around his study with interest as he left the door open behind them. Though she was a servant and he was grateful for the lesser strictures, he would not have her honor questioned.

Roland pulled something from his pocket and put something in her hand. She held his gaze for a long moment, and he remembered the sweetness of her lips, the one time he had taken liberties with her in York. She had tasted sweet and spicy, like a strong Indian tea.

Then Sabina looked down at the plain, well-made knife in her hand. The worn leather sheath came off with a nudge of her thumb.

“I carried this knife for ten years while at sea,”

Roland said. “I would not have you defenseless.”

“Oh, Roland, I cannot take this,”

Sabina sighed. “I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but this is unnecessary.”

“Is it? You carried George Templeton’s knife for years because it made you feel safe. Now I want you to carry this. I would not give you a weapon that had not been tested. This has been tested. It comforts me to know that something I carried for years now protects you,”

Roland said.

She was quiet for a long moment, then pocketed the knife. His knife now sat near her left leg, ready to defend her. Belatedly, he wondered if she had the will to use it.

“Should I need to defend myself, I am now well prepared,”

Sabina said gravely. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Kembrooke,”

Roland said gravely. “You should know that I sent Verdon an invitation for the Ladies Villiers to holiday at Schofield Manor for some time. The weather is more agreeable than in London as of late and I thought the girls would appreciate some country air.”

“Ah, I see,”

Sabina said slowly. “You are quite generous, my lord. The ladies have indeed felt stifled by London. They are country girls at heart.”

“I do hope the duke will agree to my proposal,”

Roland said.

“The ladies will see to it that he has no compunction in accepting the invitation,”

Sabina said demurely.

Roland opened his mouth, then abruptly stopped when a flood of young ladies invaded his sanctum.

“Get the rapier from that cabinet and there’s a lighter foil you can use, Sage,”

Aria said. She looked at her brother without expression. “I beg your pardon, are we interrupting?”

“Not at all, dear sister, for indeed, all I have is yours,”

Roland said smoothly, the picture of propriety. “May I inquire if the tea is meeting with your satisfaction?”

“Oh, yes, but we have need of blades,”

Aria said. “The Ladies Villiers wished to show us some blade techniques in exchange for the Darewood specialty.”

“Fisticuffs or wrestling?”

Roland asked.

“Fisticuffs, naturally,”

Aria said pleasantly.

“Good heavens, Lord Schofield, why do you have such a collection of weapons in your private study?”

Lenoir asked, testing the weight of a falchion with an expertise that raised Roland’s eyebrows.

“Academic interest,”

Roland said. Lenoir ran through a series of rapier techniques with the ease of long drills. Roland stared.

“Italian lessons,”

Sabina murmured to Roland. “Our Italian master happens to be a master of fencing. Hence the knowledge of blades.”

She then ushered the ladies out of the study.

“Don’t get blood on the carpets!”

Roland heard Sage cry before the door closed.

****

Roland rubbed his temples and wished in vain for his brother to stop talking. Roland eyed Tristan’s outlandish clothing and wondered when he had become a macaroni. Most men could not afford to dress so expensively.

He would not feel guilty about this, he decided. Men had the freedom to bed who they chose, married or not. He wasn’t even going to conduct a liaison, tonight would be a brief visit to a world with a guide he was certain was not going to hurt him.

And Roland would not hurt her. He did not allow his to be ravished on a desolate country road. He conducted his to safety, he returned her horse for goodness sake.

He would have his adventure, society be damned, and anyone who wanted to gainsay his would have to first know about his adventure and they could jump off a bridge anyway. He was a widow. Aria and Tristan were almost independent and then he would have his own adventures.

But he had something better to distract him from his cares. This was an adventure waiting tonight, and a man. Roland put a choke hold on his temper and stared at his sulky brother levelly.

“I think a hundred pounds a quarter is quite generous. If you want to gamble recklessly, I suggest you find a way to support yourself, for I am not paying your debts,”

he said as calmly as he could. The fact that it had taken Tristan until eight in the evening to rouse himself did not help his case.

Tristan Jason Darewood responded in his usual fashion.

“That is ridiculous!”

Tristan shouted at his big brother. He stalked across the study to Roland’s desk in such an agitated fashion that his fashionably rumpled hair flapped wildly. “How am I supposed to keep up appearances? I have a reputation, you understand. I will not be the laughingstock of London.”

“London doesn’t care if a spoiled would-be rake loses money or doesn’t have the latest color of breeches, Tristan,”

Roland snapped back. “I, however, care if my little brother throws away hard-earned money like it grows on trees.”

“We never had problems with money until you came back,”

Tristan shot out.

“And do you remember how that money was made?”

Roland folded his hands on his desk to avoid throttling his brother. “Cress and Aria had to dig Percy’s estates out of debt, in addition to our own lands. They built a business from the ground up to earn money. Our sisters worked themselves raw to send you to Oxford and keep you in style. I do not have their tolerance for your nonsense.”

“This is not nonsense, big brother,”

Tristan sneered. “This is my life.”

“And what a waste it is,”

Roland said flatly. He instantly regretted the words after they left his lips. Tristan looked as if someone had slammed a lead pipe into his midsection.

“You weren’t here, Roland. You ran away, remember? We were fine before you came back, and if you left, no one would miss you.”

Tristan glared at Roland obstinately.

“Be that as it may, I will not tolerate you wasting money and I will not tolerate you begging money off our sisters. They have taken care of you long enough,”

Roland stated as he pulled a sheaf of reports in front of himself to go over.

“Is that what they said?”

Tristan laughed. “I was the man of the house since Percy died. Don’t believe what they say.”

“They didn’t say anything. It was patently obvious that our sisters spoiled you rotten. Now grow up, Tristan. If you want to spend money, earn it.”

“When I come into my inheritance, I will be gone before you can say goodbye,”

Tristan swore. Percy, Cress’s dear belated husband and former holder of the Viscount Schofield title, had possessed the foresight to hold Tristan’s inheritance in abeyance until he reached of age. Roland privately believed it had actually been their sister who had added the stipulation to the documentation but the result was the same.

“You must reach the age of twenty-seven first, little brother. At the rate you’re going, I have my doubts.”

“I hate you,”

Tristan spat out. Roland’s grip on the pen tightened a fraction before he forced his fingers to relax.

“Acceptable,”

Roland replied. “So long as you don’t waste my money.”

Tristan sucked in a breath. After a long moment, he turned heel and stalked out of the study.

Roland set down his pen and closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. At times like these, he wished the French navy or that whore in Barcelona had succeeded in killing him. Dying was much easier than dealing with family.

Stalking out to the hallway, he paused to call for his coat and hat.

“Going out?”

Aria asked idly. Roland turned and greeted his sister, then frowned at her gown.

“Yes, out. Why aren’t you dressed?”

Roland asked, shrugging on his coat. “I thought you had dinner at the Pembletons.”

“Pembertons,”

Aria corrected. “I sent our regrets. I feel rather poorly, but no matter. I have my book and my drinking chocolate all ready,”

Aria said, her eyes on him. Roland frowned. If he didn’t know better, he would say his little sister was judging him.

“All right then. Is there anything you will need, Princess?”

Roland asked politely. He was eager to be on his way.

“Sage is here with me.”

Aria waved. “I shall be quite content. Good evening, brother.”

“Your servant, Princess,”

Roland said vaguely, pulling on his gloves. “Good night.”

****

In front of Verdon House, Roland leaned over from the open-top carriage and handed the invitation to the footman. He was making to leave when he heard himself hailed.

Verdon strolled out of his front door, apparently on his way out.

“Schofield. What brings you here?”

the duke asked, nodding at his own carriage to wait.

“Your Grace, we are inviting Ladies Villiers and Lenoir to visit Schofield Manor with my sister and my ward. The weather in Kent is much more agreeable than London, and I believe the ladies would benefit from a respite,”

Roland said.

“You’re only going to ask my sisters?”

Verdon asked, affronted.

Roland blinked. He had not even considered the duke. The Darewoods were enough to wrangle, he was uncertain how to manage a person who would out-rank him in his own home.

“Of course not. Naturally, the entire Villiers family is welcome to Kent, though I did not believe you to be interested.”

“I may join anon. The girls would be delighted, of course. What does one bring to Kent?”

“Schofield Manor is in Romney Marsh specifically, close to Ivychurch. Bring all the clothes you don’t like. There will be ice-fishing,”

Roland said without thinking, and was surprised again by the duke’s enthusiasm. Perhaps ice-fishing was a novelty for dukes.

Roland was barely able to make his goodbyes when the duke turned abruptly and jumped into his carriage.

Blinking at the empty space that recently hosted a duke, Roland leaned back and directed the driver to continue to the club. As they passed between buildings, Roland glanced over and saw a figure illuminated by the lamps. He snapped at the driver to slow down.

The figure was wearing his burgundy scarf, the one he had given Sabina.

Roland directed his driver to make for the mews and he was in time to see the figure get into a cab.

He knew that gait. He knew that posture. He knew that beneath the cloak was the sweet curves of one Sabina Kembrooke. The question remained: why was Sabina sneaking out of the duke’s home dressed in breeches?

Roland felt a moment of anger and fear for her. She was attacked not long ago. This was folly, and she, who was always so careful, knew it.

Roland knew right then that he would not make it to the club tonight. He directed his driver to follow the cab at a distance and settled in to follow.

****

Sabina finally found a coffeehouse in Cheapside that she liked for her task. She paid her penny and handed the letter over, to be posted in the morning.

Her father’s signet ring hung around her neck. It used to sit snugly on his pinkie finger, she remembered. Now, she used it but once a year to send a letter to the board, to let them know she would not be thought dead yet.

Sometimes Sabina wondered what became of her mother’s jewelry, the treasures she would play with for hours on end when she was little. The ruby ear bobs, the emerald pendant, the cut-steel tiara that sparkled like a thousand suns. The best treasure of all had been the strand of pearls from the South Seas that her father had given her mother in honor of Sabina’s birth.

Annika had always promised that Sabina would have the pearls on her wedding day.

Having the jewels would have done her no good. In her circumstances, she probably would have ended up selling them. She could not sell the signet ring. It was the last remaining proof of who she was.

Standing in the coffeehouse, she toyed with the idea of ordering a dram, but only for a moment. The longer she remained away from the duke’s house alone, the better chance of trouble.

Sabina exited the establishment and looked for a cab to hail.

“We only recently discussed this,”

a voice said close to her ear. Sabina jerked around, the knife she hid in her sleeve sliding out. She slashed blindly and was getting ready to dash away when she saw his face.

Oh crumbs. Roland stood there in the candlelight, having dodged her blow.

“Does this mean you won’t have supper with me?”