A Lady Never Surrenders (10 page)

Curious wasn’t good—not if Jackson was to keep this particular line of inquiry secret for Lady Celia’s sake. “Something one of the Sharpes said made me wonder about it. But tell him not to bother.”

He’d just ask the nurse when he met her, though he wasn’t sure it was even worth mentioning.

I feel in my bones that it was real.

He sighed, remembering how fervently Lady Celia had spoken those words. No matter how much trouble she gave him, and how much he wanted to steer clear of her, he couldn’t just dismiss her dream without following it up. She might be the most aggravating female ever to come into his sphere, but she deserved better than that.

C
elia wasn’t surprised to find herself alone at the breakfast table. It was still early for people to be up, considering that the dancing and card playing had gone on until well past one in the morning. Normally she would still be abed, too, but she hadn’t been able to sleep.

It wasn’t because of her suitors, either. Lord Devonmont’s flirting later in the evening had demonstrated that her mention of marriage hadn’t sent him fleeing. And the duke had danced with her twice. The second time he’d made himself quite amiable, forcing her to seriously consider the possibility of accepting his offer.

Only one thing had her balking: his cool kiss. Especially when compared to Mr. Pinter’s hot ones.

Curse that man. No matter how much she told herself his kisses hadn’t meant anything, her wounded pride wanted to believe otherwise. Her wounded pride insisted they’d been too passionate to be meant only as a lesson.

Her wounded pride was a blasted nuisance.

“The Visconde de Basto, my lady,” said a voice from the door.

With a start, she turned to find a footman ushering the viscount into the breakfast room. “Good morning, sir,” she rose to say cheerily, glad to be distracted from her thoughts. “You’ve arrived early, I see.”

Smiling broadly, he strode over to take her hand and lift it to his lips, brushing a kiss against it in the Continental fashion. “I did not want to miss one moment of my time with such a lovely lady.”

Sometimes she had to strain to make out his words through his thick accent, but she’d caught that perfectly well. “I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the sideboard. “Do have some breakfast.”

“Thank you, I believe I shall. I left town without eating.” He winked at her. “I was in a great hurry to see you.”

She bit back a laugh. Sometimes he was the Portuguese version of Lord Devonmont.

As he strolled to the sideboard, she took her seat and tried to ignore what he wore, but his outrageous attire was one of his few flaws. She understood that fashions were different in Portugal, but really, she’d never seen such a peacock!

Still, she could tell that a fine form lay beneath his red velvet waistcoat and green satin breeches. Fortunately his coat was brown, which helped to mitigate the vividness of the other colors, though he did wear his cravat in an elaborate and rather old-fashioned knot.

Unbidden, Mr. Pinter’s remark about him flitted into her head:
Basto is a Portuguese idiot who’s too old for you and clearly trawling for some sweet young thing to nurse him in his declining years.

She scowled. Why on earth would Mr. Pinter think the man so old? Lord Basto’s hair was black as night, where even Oliver’s was starting to show threads of gray. She would guess him to be Oliver’s age—late thirties at most. That was only fifteen years older than she, certainly not out of the realm of possibility for a husband.

She did wish he wasn’t quite so hairy, though. He kept his full beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and she understood that it was quite common abroad, but no man in England wore full whiskers. The first thing she’d do if they married was persuade him to shave.

He sat down next to her at the table with a plate full of eggs and sausage and cast her a serious glance. “I must apologize, my lady. I wish that I could join you here in the evenings as well, but it is very hard on the … how do you say it … company … for my ailing sister.”

“Company? Oh, you mean a companion?”

He smiled gratefully. “Yes, that is the word. The companion must speak Portuguese, and that is not so easy to find. I could only hire the one lady, and she can only come in the day.”

“Yes, I suspect there are few Englishwomen who speak Portuguese. You’re lucky you found one who did.”

“I am sure that is true.” He slanted a glance at her. “I do not dare to hope that you speak it.”

“I’m afraid not.” When he looked disappointed, she added, “But your English is very good, so there’s no need.”

His eyes twinkled. “You are too kind, my lady. Indeed, you are the most amiable Englishwoman I have ever met.”

She laughed. The viscount was rapidly rising on her list. “Some people don’t find me amiable.”
Like a certain unfeeling Bow Street Runner.

He struck a hand to his chest. “I cannot believe that! You are such an
alma brilhante
… a bright soul. How can anyone not see it?”

She grinned at him. “They must all be blind.”

“And deaf.” He tapped his temple. “And not very right in the head.”

“Excellent, my lord,” she said. “You grasped that idiom quite well.”

He looked surprised by that, then smiled. “I have to learn if I am to impress the
senhora
.”

She cast him a coy glance. “And why would you want to impress me, sir?”

Picking up her hand, he pressed a kiss to it again and this time didn’t release it. “Why would I not?” His wistful expression tugged at her sympathies.

“You’d better eat your eggs before they get cold,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand.

He sighed and did as she bade. After a moment, he said, “I understand that your father’s family is foreign, like me. Is that true?”

“Yes, Papa’s mother was from Tuscany.”

“So he was half-Italian. Is that why your mother married him? Because she liked foreigners?”

He said it so hopefully that Celia snorted. “I think she liked that he was a marquess but didn’t realize what that meant.”

He frowned. “I do not understand.”

“My father was used to living how he pleased, to being fawned over as a marquess. He didn’t change his behavior once he was married.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t faithful to my mother. But she’d married him because she thought they were in love. So his infidelities broke her heart.”

“I see. And you know for certain that he was not faithful?”

We can meet at the hunting lodge.

No, that was
too
personal to speak of. “I only know because my siblings speak of it. I don’t remember anything of those years. I was too young.”

“That is good,” he said.

She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.

He cast her a searching glance. “No child should have to witness their parent’s—how did you say it?—infidelities.”

“I quite agree.” She gave him a sad smile. “Though I’m surprised you feel that way. I assumed that being from the Continent and of a privileged class—”

“I would approve of such behavior?” He sounded insulted.

But she persisted. “Perhaps. Many noblemen marry for money, to make sure that their estates are taken care of. Mama fancied herself in love with Papa, when all he wanted was her fortune.”

“And you fear that a man will marry
you
for
your
fortune,” he said, surprising her with his insight.

“Can you blame me? I want a man to like me for myself, not for what I can provide him.”

“That is very wise of you. And you have a right to expect it, too.” He turned pensive. “But sometimes people want many things, not just one. Money, an amiable wife … peace.”

Peace?
What a strange choice. “And what do
you
want, sir?”

As if realizing he’d revealed too much about himself, he cast her a bland smile. “I want everything, of course. Who does not?” He patted her hand. “But I will settle for an amiable wife.” It was as close to making a declaration of his intentions as he’d come.

So of course Mr. Pinter chose that inopportune moment to enter the breakfast room. “And whose amiable wife are you settling for, sir?” he said in a snide tone.

His gaze dropped to the viscount’s hand resting on hers, then darkened. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand free.

The viscount bristled, tightening his hand almost possessively on hers. “Do I know you, sir?”

“Not yet. The name is Jackson Pinter.” He came to stand directly across the table and bent forward over it to offer his hand to Lord Basto, forcing the viscount to release her hand to take it. “Some would call me Mrs. Plumtree’s ‘lackey,’” he added with a side glance at Celia. “Though I work for Lord Stoneville.”

She colored, remembering the conversation they’d had a few months ago, when she’d called him that. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. No doubt he was still smarting over her pulling a pistol on him last night. “Mr. Pinter does investigations of all kinds,” she explained. “For money.”

Mr. Pinter’s slate-gray eyes bore into her. “Some of us cannot live on our family’s fortune, my lady.”

“While some of us are very fond of biting the hand that feeds them.” If he could throw her past words at her, then she could throw back what he’d said to
her
months ago.

She was surprised when a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “A hit direct, madam. Perhaps I should get out of the line of fire while I still have my head.”

“Perhaps you should refrain from putting yourself
in
the line of fire in the first place,” she quipped. “An officer of the law ought to know better.”

“Know better than what?” Oliver asked as he entered with the duke at his side.

Generally, she liked being in a room full of men. But when it was her brother, two suitors, and the only man whose kisses had ever affected her, there was a bit too much manliness in the air for her taste.

“Your sister and I were just having one of our usual discussions,” Mr. Pinter said.

“You mean she was raking you over the coals again,” Oliver said.

“I believe the coal raking was mutual this time,” she said lightly.

Oliver snorted. She could feel the viscount’s gaze on her, and the duke seemed to be watching both her
and
Mr. Pinter. It was very unsettling.

“So you’re investigating the deaths of the Sharpes’ parents, are you?” the duke asked Mr. Pinter in a conversational tone.

As Celia groaned, Oliver swung his gaze to her. “You
told
him about that?”

Last night, she’d been so worried that Mr. Pinter might tell the duke his role in investigating her suitors that she’d blurted out something the family had been keeping fairly quiet until now.

“I’m afraid I’m the one who told him, your lordship,” Mr. Pinter said. “I assumed that he knew, given his friendship with your brother.”

She was shocked that Mr. Pinter would lie to Oliver to spare her embarrassment. Especially since he depended on Oliver for part of his livelihood.

Mr. Pinter’s eyes met hers, and a faint smile curved his lips.

“Sorry, old chap,” the duke said, his curious gaze on her and Mr. Pinter. “No one said it was a secret.” He cast a veiled glance at the viscount. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Looking confused, Lord Basto leaned over to whisper, “I had heard that your mother shot your father as an accident and then shot herself. Is that not so?”

“It’s … complicated,” she murmured, aware of Oliver’s dour gaze on them.

“I see the cat is out of the bag,” Oliver grumbled. “Just so you know, Mr. Pinter is here to explore the possibility that our parents were murdered. If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind, we’d rather that information not be spread too widely.”

“What information?” said a fresh voice from the doorway.

Lord Devonmont. And he had Gabe with him.

“Good heavens,” Celia said, “what are all you men doing up so early?”

Gabe laughed. “We’re going shooting, of course. Well, except for Jarret. He has to be at the brewery.” He glanced at the viscount. “You’ll come with us, Basto, won’t you?”

“I would be delighted.”

“Speaking of shooting, my lady,” Mr. Pinter said as he came around the table, “I looked over your pistol as you requested. Everything seems to be in order.”

Removing it from his coat pocket, he handed it to her, a hint of humor in his gaze. As several pairs of male eyes fixed on her, she colored. To hide her embarrassment, she made a great show of examining her gun. He’d cleaned it thoroughly, which she grudgingly admitted was rather nice of him.

“What a cunning little weapon,” the viscount said and reached for it. “May I?”

She handed him the pistol.

“How tiny it is,” he exclaimed.

“It’s a lady’s pocket pistol,” she told him as he examined it.

Oliver frowned at her. “When did you acquire a pocket pistol, Celia?”

“A little while ago,” she said blithely.

Gabe grinned. “You may not know this, Basto, but my sister is something of a sharpshooter. I daresay she has a bigger collection of guns than Oliver.”

“Not bigger,” she said. “Finer perhaps, but I’m choosy about my firearms.”

“She has beaten us all at some time or another at target shooting,” the duke said dryly. “The lady could probably hit a fly at fifty paces.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a grin. “A beetle perhaps, but not a fly.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she could have kicked herself. Females did not boast of their shooting—not if they wanted to snag husbands.

“You should come shooting with us,” Oliver said. “Why not?”

The last thing she needed was to beat her suitors at shooting. The viscount in particular would take it very ill. She suspected that Portuguese men preferred their women to be wilting flowers.

“No thank you,” she said. “Target shooting is one thing, but I don’t like hunting birds.”

“Suit yourself,” Gabe said, clearly happy to make it a gentlemen-only outing, though he knew perfectly well that hunting birds didn’t bother her.