Peyton and the Paragon Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  letter

  Please review

  Other Books

  About the Author

  Peyton and the Paragon

  By

  Cathy Peper

  Copyright 2016 Cathy Peper. All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  June 1813

  Crosswinds

  She had done it again. Peyton could scarce believe it, but as he stood there, in the center of the bridge, nonplussed, Isabel Bentham vanished, with a swish of her pale, pink skirt, around a bend in the path. Her words drifted back to him.

  “Tell your mother I won’t be coming to tea!”

  Apparently not. He remained still a moment longer, rooted to the ground by the unsettling feeling that he’d just been slapped in the face for no reason. He pushed himself away from the railing that protected walkers from tumbling into the stream which meandered across his family’s property before eventually making its way into the sea. He had meant nothing unseemly by the invitation to go swimming. He’d thought only of the longing in her voice as Isabel recounted her childhood home in Cornwall. Merged with his own happy memories of tumbling about in the waves, he’d spoken without realizing his words might be misconstrued.

  In the end, however, humor won out over his sense of injustice and he chuckled to himself. She was as prickly as a bramble bush the way she rose to his taunts, but she must be all about in the head to think him capable of plotting her seduction on the grounds of Crosswinds. Peyton always made it a point to put his rakish ways behind him when he was at home and not even in Town would he attempt to ruin a young lady of good birth. He might be a rackety sort of fellow, but he wasn’t a reprobate. Hostesses invited him everywhere without fear for their young daughters. He couldn’t imagine where she had gotten such a notion about him, but then she and her cousin had not gone out much before his mother’s invitation to Crosswinds had made them popular. Knowing little of the ways of the ton, she might have an exaggerated view of his reputation.

  She would need to acquire some town bronze soon, however, if she hoped to survive a real London Season. The cachet of being one of the select few to receive a highly coveted invitation to his mother’s annual house party, along with the rumored extent of her dowry, would practically assure Isabel’s success once she and her cousin returned to the city. It wasn’t vanity talking. Peyton had seen it happen before. Girls who met his mother’s notoriously high standards, yet couldn’t manage to wrangle a marriage proposal from him, often went on to make brilliant matches with other eligible bachelors.

  In fact, his mother’s parties had become rather legendary. Everyone in the ton knew his mother was searching for the perfect bride—a woman of sufficient beauty, grace, character and bloodline—to become the next Lady Roxbury. Money was attractive, but secondary to her other objectives. And, of course, this paragon had to be someone who could tempt him into leaving his profligate ways and making her an offer. Was it any wonder that every candidate so far had been doomed to failure?

  Shaking aside his musings and having rationalized Miss Bentham’s baffling reaction to the best of his ability, Peyton headed back towards the house. His mother would be none too pleased at her guest’s defection, but Peyton figured he could turn her up sweet with a few well-chosen words.

  However, it took no more than a few moments back in the rose salon for Peyton to realize he had underestimated the difficulty he faced. The countess presided over a diminished crowd of tea drinkers, and although she had a smile plastered on her lips, Peyton could tell by the look in her eyes that her mood was thunderous.

  “Mama,” he said, walking briskly over to her and taking the brimming cup of tea she offered him, “it appears that Miss Bentham has lost herself amid the beauty of the east wing garden.”

  “You could not find her?”

  “I went as far as the bridge,” Peyton said smoothly. His mother’s eyes were sharp, but if he kept to half truths he might be able to avoid mentioning their quarrel.

  “Hmph.” If the countess noticed that her son had not actually answered her question, she let the matter drop. “Your friend Clay is also missing, walking in the topiary garden according to Miss Hollister.”

  Peyton’s glance swept the room. Clay was no where in sight, but he worried that his friend might be straining his leg by walking all alone in the garden. His mouth tightened, and when he answered his mother, it was in an undertone. “I know he wants to regain full use of his leg as quickly as possible, but he won’t speed his recovery by pushing himself too hard.”

  “He’s sulking, I have no doubt, but can one really blame the poor boy? To come home with such injuries after the service he provided our country must be devastating, but I do wish he would make an effort. After all, invitations to Crosswinds are highly prized, and not only by the young ladies so honored. Men on the lookout for an eligible bride will find no better selection than right here.”

  “It was an effort for Clay to come at all, Mama,” Peyton said rather shortly, but his mother’s remarks were no more than what he had expected—genuine compassion for Clay’s plight and sacrifice mingled with her own exalted notions of what was due to her and her precious Crosswinds. His mother took such pride in the place that he wondered at times if she forgot that she had not been born there herself, but had married the young and dissolute heir to the Roxbury title in a valiant effort to save both him and Crosswinds from the road to ruin. The general consensus was that she had exceeded everyone’s expectations with the house, turning a neglected estate into a showplace, but had been at best only partially successful at reforming her husband. Peyton wondered which had been the more daunting task. Still, his mother was right that invitations to her yearly gathering were not to be taken lightly.

  “Your sister has not made an appearance either, in spite of the fact that I told her I wanted her to practice mingling with the elite. She will be making her Come Out in two years and still has no idea how to comport herself.”

  Peyton smiled. “I make my guess that she is lost in a book somewhere and will come scurrying in after the tea has grown cold.”

  “A shocking want of conduct, in addition to the fact that I don’t want it generally known that Rae is such a bluestocking,” scolded his mother. “How will I ever find her a husband?”

  “You will have no trouble finding Rae a husband once she grows into those legs of hers.”

  “Alas! She is going to be shockingly tall as well as frightfully bookish and absent-minded. I will have a harder time with her than I have had with you, Peyton.” As if her words reminded her of the reason for the present gathering, Lady Roxbury drew herself up short. “But I’ve taken too much of your time already. You must use this opportunity to learn more about Lady Alice and Miss Hollister.”

  Peyton nodded before making his way over to the settee where Lady Alice sat all alone. Miss Hollister had ensconced herself in the window bay, and Mrs. Hollister and Lady Alice’s companion occupied the wing chairs near the fireplace. His father, Peyton noticed without surprise, had not deigned to join them.

  “May I sit next to you, Lady Alice?”

  She inclined her head regally, but did not appear overly flattered by his
attention.

  Peyton strove for patience. He just wasn’t having his usual success with the fair sex. Determined to change this, he turned his full attention upon Lady Alice. “Have you had a chance to see any of the gardens? They are said to be very fine.”

  “I expect they must be to have swallowed up two of our party.” A slight smile turned up the corners of Lady Alice’s lips, blunting her aloof demeanor. “However, in answer to your question, although I have not yet been outdoors, I can see much of the topiary garden from here. Your mother must employ a talented gardening staff. It appears to be a very fine example of the art form.”

  “There is a maze as well, beyond the hill.”

  “A maze? Is that not rather old fashioned?”

  Peyton laughed. “I should say so! The maze dates from the sixteenth century, I believe, but I would have to check with my mother to be certain. I know the secret,” he added, trying to coax another smile.

  She raised her pencil thin brows. “I would hope that you did. You do live here, after all. But you have put my mind at ease. I will have no fear of entering the maze with you, since you know the way out.”

  Peyton suddenly imagined how different Miss Bentham’s reaction would be to the same circumstance. Though his attentions were honorable in either situation, she would doubtless take umbrage at him for even suggesting that they wander through the maze, and accuse him of trying to ruin her. Of course, he had been known to steal a kiss from within the shrubbery as that was half the fun and allure of the maze. So perhaps Miss Bentham had the right of it after all. He considered warning Lady Alice that she might not be as safe with him as she thought, but stopped himself just in time. She might not understand that he was joking. He could imagine her staring vaguely back at him with her dark eyes, her lips turning down this time. Lady Alice, despite her earlier smile, did not seem overly endowed with a sense of humor.

  She was, however, a practiced conversationalist. They chatted easily enough about mundane matters while Peyton’s mind raced ahead. With Clay in a black mood, if his mother was to be believed, and his sister playing least in sight, he would have to exert himself to the fullest in an attempt to please his guests. Actually, he didn’t know if he was up to the challenge this time. Lady Alice appeared unimpressed with his address and Miss Hollister looked either bored or pensive as she stared out the window. The chaperons seemed to enjoy their gossip and refreshments, but Peyton knew his mother was fuming. It might prove to be an enlightening few weeks in the country, for Peyton feared that none of the girls that had been gathered here for his inspection were all that interested in becoming the next Lady Ives. It mattered not to him, since he wasn’t anxious to find anyone for the position, but he found the prospect rather lowering all the same. This year, it appeared he might actually have to exert himself and become the pursuer, rather than the prey. A month ago he would never have believed it, his luck had gone sour ever since that night at his club when he’d lost a bundle to a card shark named Bowlin. Peyton gritted his teeth as he thought back to that night. Bowlin had played him like a fish…

  Chapter 2

  Ten days earlier

  London

  A faint haze of smoke filled the air, its source the dozens of sparkling candles that lit the gaming room at Brooks’s and brightened the card tables to a semblance of day, enticing the players to continue with their playing, despite the late hour. Silent waiters replenished drinks without being asked, but the ever-present crowd of lookers-on had dwindled to a mere few. One of the lingerers, a tall man dressed to the height of elegance, studied his losing hand of cards and wished he had sought his own berth hours earlier.

  Peyton Worthing, Lord Ives, realized that this night’s work ended his current tour of the gaming hells. It had been a mistake to take this last chance to recoup. However, never one to stay glum and determined to look on the bright side of what had been a run of bad luck, he visualized taking his stallion, Mischief, on an early morning gallop in Hyde Park, the wind clean and sweet in his face, his mind cleared of the fog of drink. He estimated that it had been over a sen-night since he had seen the sun.

  Too long.

  Whiskey, combined with lack of sleep, had muddled his senses and apparently impaired his judgment as well. Having lost more heavily than usual, Peyton knew he would have to apply to his father for money. He hadn’t nearly enough of the ready to cover the pile of vouchers he’d signed tonight and the money lender he patronized on the east end of Town would advance him no more, even if Peyton had been willing to dig himself deeper into debt. Approaching the money lender had been a mistake, Peyton acknowledged. Had he gone to his father in the first place, he would have saved himself quite a sum in ruinous interest payments, enough to have covered the bulk of tonight’s losses. His father always gave him the money, no questions asked. It would have cost him nothing but a few moments pride.

  “I’m rolled up,” he said shortly as he pushed himself away from the table.

  His opponent, a man named Bowlin, slid the stack of vowels into his pocket. “Your luck might change,” he taunted.

  And hell might freeze over too. “I’ve not drunk so deeply that I would throw good money after bad.” His tongue garbled the words. Perhaps he had drunk more deeply than he knew. He blinked to clear his head and to chase the burning dryness from his eyes. Resentfully, he noted that fatigue weighed lightly on the other man. Bowlin’s eyes were not reddened with exhaustion. His lids didn’t droop with the pull of gravity and his cravat looked as stiff as though it had been freshly starched. Peyton reached for his own wilted neck cloth. Fortunately at this late hour the club was thin of patrons. Peyton knew even without the aid of a mirror that he looked less than his usual elegant self. But then a week of determined dissipation was enough to take the starch out of anyone, even those with aspirations to the dandy set.

  Bowlin, however, in spite of his flawless appearance, was not a dandy. No, Peyton thought resentfully, Bowlin was a Captain Sharp, and he had been fool enough to fall into the man’s clutches. Fortunately he was not enough of a flat to do any real damage. He knew when to cut his losses and although he had lost more than normal, it was nothing the estate could not swallow. The best of it was, his father would not even cut up stiff about it, he never did. Peculiar of him, but then Peyton had given up trying to comprehend his father’s eccentricities years ago. They made little sense even when he was sober.

  Standing, Peyton fought a wave of dizziness and nodded a quick good-bye to Bowlin. Concentrating on remaining upright, he made his way through to the common room and had almost escaped the establishment when a trifling acquaintance from his days at Eton grabbed him by the arm.

  “Bowlin row you up the River Tick?” the man asked.

  Peyton paused. It would do him no good, and possibly a great deal of harm, to vent his annoyance at having his private affairs bruited about, so he smothered his temper and cast a winning smile at his interrogator. Melvin. Yes, Melvin something or other. Peyton could not quite recall his surname.

  “I’ll be short ‘til quarter day,” he acknowledged easily even though lying about finances was about as futile as arriving at Almack’s dance club after eleven and expecting to be let in. The details of his night’s losses would be discussed over tea tables tomorrow. All of London knew that his father kept him on a short leash and would continue to do so until he took a bride. His mood lightened as he imagined the rampant speculation in drawing rooms across the city. It wouldn’t come to that, of course. He’d come around, he always did. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy the extra income; he hated having to go to his father every time he found himself in debt. But he hated the thought of marriage even more.

  Melvin fell into step beside him. “Bowlin makes his living at the tables, stripping green lads up from the country of their fortunes.”

  Peyton refused to rise to the bait. “I’m neither a lad nor new to Town, so he missed his prey tonight, if that was his game.” He wished Melvin to the devil, but suffered his presence r
ather than draw attention to the pair of them. “I expect I got off rather lightly. I never play deep, you know.”

  Disappointment came and went so quickly on Melvin’s face that Peyton could not be sure he had even seen it. Melvin Gates? Or was it Yates? Whatever, the little weasel had been just as irritating at school as he appeared to be as a man grown. Thwarted in his attempt to lure Peyton into indiscretion, Melvin turned to another, possibly more volatile subject.

  “Deuced shame about Trumble. You were friends with him, were you not, when we were at Eton?”

  Peyton barely heard anything beyond the first sentence. Of course he was friends with Clay Trumble. Though their paths had diverged as they grew into manhood, the two boys had formed a bond that still existed.

  “What happened to Clay?” Peyton asked, a sudden feeling of dread overtaking him. The hushed voices around him seemed to highlight that dread, swamping his senses until he could hear little but the rise and fall of their cadences. Melvin’s features blurred as his eyes grew damp with unbidden moisture.

  “You haven’t heard?” Melvin’s voice was eager, that of a true gossip going in for the kill.

  “Did he fall in the Peninsula?” Peyton forced the words through his constricted throat. He knew, of course, that Clay had shipped with his regiment to Spain, but had not heard that his unit was involved in any battle. However, it had been days since he’d seen a paper or attended a ton party and change happened quickly in the war zone.

  Melvin’s fuzzy features contorted with malice. “He was cut down several weeks ago. They shipped him home to recuperate.”

  Recuperate. As the meaning of the word penetrated Peyton’s consciousness the buzzing in the room receded into indecipherable voices once more. Clay wasn’t dead, merely injured—and he had been invalided back to England. He might even be staying somewhere in London.

  Melvin continued speaking even as Peyton’s world righted itself. “Nasty business that—a saber cut to the face. He will no longer turn ladies’ heads, I fear. Not that he was ever such a well-favored fellow as you are, Ives. On you, not even a scar would send the ladies fleeing.”