The Random Gentleman by Elizabeth Chater Page A

gypsy, whatever else he was!
    “What is your name?” she snapped regarding the creature’s innocent expression with a frown. “I cannot be forever calling you ‘You’ !”
    “Peregrine—er—Random,” offered the Duke hopefully.
    “Ridiculous,” said the Earl’s granddaughter shortly.
    “Would you say ‘ridiculous’?” protested the creature.
    “It means wandering haphazardly,” said the well-educated Belinda, “and is obviously an assumed name. No person is named Wandering Haphazardly,”
    “I recently heard of a man whose father called him Waiting-for-the-Light,” argued the Duke, “and another named Parsifal Galahad. Of course he joined the army as Peter George. One cannot quite blame him.”
    “That,” remarked Belinda austerely, “is quite another matter. Peregrine Random has a distinctly theatrical flavor.”
    The Duke was tempted for a moment to pursue this fascinating alternative, but decided the role of a traveling actor might be too fatiguing to sustain. Instead he offered, “My mother was a romantic?” with the air of one defending à outrance an untenable position.
    “You are a Banbury man,” accused the girl, “and you are enjoying all this too much for it to be a serious problem to you!”
    The Duke’s lazily provocative smile was wiped suddenly from his lips, and he stared soberly at the delightful little face under the tumbled golden curls. “On the contrary, Miss Oliphant, the problem is a most serious one, and my peace of mind—to say nothing of my future happiness—may well depend upon the events of the next few days.”
    The impact of this sudden gravity, combined with the Duke’s undeniable virility and masculine beauty, struck Belinda with the force of a thunderbolt. She had had nothing in her life to prepare her for this man. Her grandfather had been middle-aged when she first became aware of his part in her life. She had never really known her father. The young sprigs of fashion she had met in London were either titled youths or dashing junior officers, not mature and sophisticated men of the world like the Duke. The Honorable Belinda Sayre had been carefully protected from such as these—partly by her youth, and partly by the efficient system of chaperonage perfected unobtrusively by her grandfather and Lady Tulliver. Now, her velvet brown eyes wide with concern, her cheeks pink with unaccustomed emotion, she scanned the handsome face above her.
    “Are you in trouble?” she faltered. He could have lost his fortune at the gaming tables—she had heard of such things happening. Or he could be in one of those mysterious scrapes the young officers were frequently alluding to and always refusing to discuss with her. That would explain his traveling with a band of gypsies rather than by more conventional means. She scrutinized his rather grubby clothing. It seemed to her untrained eye to have been at one time of good quality, if a shade exotic. The short green velvet jacket and the silk shirt were really not the usual wear for Englishmen, but the riding boots—and Belinda did know about well-made boots—were of excellent style, although dreadfully in need of polish. And the stained buckskins fitted the man’s strong, well-muscled thighs as though they had been made for him.
    Belinda’s cheeks grew even rosier as she raised her eyes to encounter his knowing gaze. It was essential to remove that warm, intent look from his face. The general’s granddaughter attacked.
    “I think you are cutting a wheedle, sirrah! You do not appear to me to be concerned about anything more serious than another man’s girl!”
    The Duke at once favored her with a delightful smile. “That, my child, can mean more trouble than you could dream of! But you must allow me to keep my guilty secret, Miss Oliphant. It would not be to my advantage to disclose it at the moment.”
    Belinda could think of no way to pursue this engrossing subject. They continued to walk along the path. After a few