That evening Cal found himself seated closely between Frampton’s two very friendly sisters. They gave him their undivided, enthusiastic, slightly competitive—and slightly unnerving—attention. Frampton and his mother smiled benevolently.
It had been years since Cal had sat down to a simple family meal—though there was nothing simple about this one. The table groaned with extravagant dishes. The sisters Frampton paid the food little attention. They lavished Cal with questions and compliments. Endlessly. His every utterance was treated as a gem of infinite wisdom, or an example of exquisite wit, provoking gales of feminine laughter.
It was very odd. Did all returned officers get this kind of welcome? While the common soldiers starved in the streets?
It was only when the servants placed a veritable feast of mouthwatering cream-filled puddings and jellies on the table, and the young Misses Frampton didn’t so much as lift their avid gazes from Cal, that he finally twigged.
He thought about the other invitations he’d received. Each one of the exceptionally friendly and hospitable fellows he’d met just happened to have unmarried sisters. The hair on his scalp lifted softly.
It wasn’t Major Cal Rutherford they’d invited to dine, it was the new Lord Ashendon—the rich, unmarried, damnably eligible Lord Ashendon.
Cal was well used to the attentions of women, but every one of his flirts and lovers had been women of the world, sophisticated and experienced—and uninterested in anything permanent. They wanted his body, not his name and fortune, and that suited him well.
Innocent-but-eager young ladies on the hunt for a rich and titled husband were a totally new experience. He didn’t have time for this sort of nonsense. He was here to do a job.
The elder Miss Frampton ran her hand along his thigh. Cal jumped and almost spilled his claret.
The younger Miss Frampton snuggled closer and stroked his arm.
At the end of the dinner when the ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Frampton said, “Lovely girls, my sisters. Best sisters in the world. Wouldn’t want them to marry just anyone, y’know.”
Cal nodded and gulped his port. As Frampton continued to wax lyrical about his sisters and their many virtues and fine qualities, Cal made a decision. It was time to investigate the men on the rural part of his list.
The minute the dinner was over, he returned to his club, called for a stiff brandy, and penned a series of apologetic notes, canceling all future engagements, claiming he’d been called away on urgent family business.
He sent a note to Radcliffe and also to Phipps, the lawyer, informing them of his intention to leave for Bath first thing in the morning. One of the men on his list lived nearthe village of Three Mile Cross, which was on the way, more or less.
The lawyer was efficient, Cal had to give him that, for as he was finishing his breakfast the next morning a servant arrived to inform him his carriage awaited him.
It was a traveling chaise, very smart, with the wheels picked out in yellow and the Ashendon coat of arms emblazoned on the gleaming black side panels. A team of four matched bays fretted and fidgeted impatiently. The driver grinned down at Cal and gave him a sketchy salute.
“Mornin’, Master Cal—m’lord, I should say. Delighted to see you back in England safe and sound.” It was his father’s old coachman.
Cal nodded, trying desperately to recall the man’s name. Hawkins, that was it.
Hawkins’s grin widened as Cal greeted him by name. “Grand day for a run to Bath, m’lord. Horses are mighty fresh—needin’ a good run, they are.”
Cal glanced at the horses. “A fine-looking team.”
Hawkins nodded. “Your brother’s ’orses. Kept an eye on ’em, and when I got the message from your pa’s lawyer, well, I knew where to get ’em.”
Cal frowned. Had Hawkins been kicking his heels all these months since his father’s death?
Hawkins laughed at Cal’s question. “Oh, bless you, no, m’lord. I been driving them London hackney carriages.” He paused and spat. “Rubbish they are. Very happy I was to hear you were home and needing a coachman again.”
“You mean you quit your job to take me to Bath?”
“A’course,” Hawkins said indignantly, as if no other choice were possible. “Served the Rutherford family all me life, I ’ave.”
Cal climbed into the carriage. Hawkins’s rash decision disturbed him. From the little he’d seen so far, jobs in London were in short supply.
The forces of family and societal expectation were closing in around him, but Cal was determined to fight free of them. He wasn’t one to shirk his duty, but he was determined, nevertheless, to live his life the way he chose to.
He liked the adventure and uncertainty—even the danger—of his current life. Elevation to the peerage was the last thing he wanted. But he’d do what he had to—once he’d caught the Scorpion.
He would get that bastard or die trying. He owed it to Bentley.
Cal had met Bentley at school. Several years older than Bentley, Cal hadn’t come across him until he’d turned a corner one day and found a scrawny young boy doing his best to fight off three larger boys. He obviously had no idea how to fight, but that didn’t stop him from trying. His fists were flying, but not connecting, and though he was being thrashed, he wouldn’t give up.
