Page 4 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“Now just wait a minute,” Chance began, and then took a breath. Whoever this girl was, she was all alone in the middle of nowhere. There was a storm blowing outside, and she was trapped in here with a man she had no reason whatsoever to trust. “You don’t trust me. I know that, and you are quite right not to, but I give you my word you need not be afraid of me. I am simply waiting out the storm. I shall be on my way as soon as I can, but… but I would be pleased to help you. I know this is not your property and that you ought not be here. You most certainly ought not be wandering about alone, so… what happened?”

“How do you know?” she asked, suspicion glinting in her dark eyes. “That it is not my property?”

Chance hesitated. He did not like the idea of the girl knowing his father was the Earl of Blackdown.

“I live near to here,” he hedged. “I knew Mr and Mrs Burrough, the last tenants.”

“Where are they?” she asked, a nervous edge to the question.

“Mr Burrough died a few months ago. Mrs Burrough has gone to live with her sister in Cornwall.”

“Mister Burrough died… here?” she asked, glancing anxiously at the ceiling.

Chance bit back a smile. “Yes, but don’t worry. He’s not haunting the place. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

She snorted and muttered something that did not sound complimentary.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Of course there are ghosts,” she said, tutting at him. “How can you think otherwise?”

Chance frowned, folding his arms. “Well, I’ve never seen one.”

“’Ave you ever seen an elephant?” she demanded.

“Well… no,” he admitted.

“Ah, well, then elephants do not exist.”

“I didn’t mean….” Chance began before giving up. “Never mind blasted elephants, or ghosts for that matter. How did you come to be here? Where is your family?”

She shrugged then. “My parents are dead.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I was a baby. I never knew them.”

“Was it… the revolution?” Chance asked, feeling awkward now.

The revolution was nothing to do with him, but he’d fought against the French in the war that had followed, after all. Was that why she hated Englishmen? Despite himself, he stiffened as she studied him, feeling certain she could see into his head, see all the things he had seen, and the horrors that sometimes woke him at night, sweating and gasping for breath.

“You were a soldier,” she said, confirming that he ought never play poker.

He did not wish to lie about it, so he nodded.

She considered him a moment longer. “What is your name?”

Chance let out a breath of relief, having expected this rather cross young woman with her low opinion of English men to berate him for the killing of her countrymen. Yet now he had another dilemma, if he did not wish to give away his identity.

“Charles Lascelles,” he said quickly, giving the name of a distant cousin. “At your service, Miss…?”

She pursed her lips for a long moment, looking at him, and Chance wondered if she knew he was lying.

“Odette de Bethencourt.”

Chance bowed. She dipped a curtsey, and then gave a little snort of laughter at how absurd it seemed in the circumstances. Chance grinned at her.

“Well, Miss de Bethencourt—”