Amy Lake (22 page)

“I need a small favor.”

* * * *

Jody sat with his sister and tried with little success to read Pindar as she concentrated on her needlework. It had been a trying day, between a call from the rector–who prosed on and on about the windows in the church until Jody thought he could scream from boredom–and a letter from Lady Gastonby, proposing a visit.

At least that danger had been averted. His normally polite sister had simply said, “No, I won’t do it,” and had written the earl’s aunt an immediate reply, bidding her wait until her nephew was in residence. Subtlety, said Claire, was wasted on Lady Gastonby.

Jody turned the pages in his book from time to time but continued to glance covertly at his sister. Lord Tremayne was her husband!  Didn’t she even miss him?  She must miss him. Jody was sure Claire was hiding her true feelings about the earl, but during the two months he had been at Wrensmoor, his sister had remained seemingly content. It was very frustrating.

“Ouch!”  His sister yelped and popped a finger into her mouth.

Jody snickered. His sister was hopelessly inept at needlework. Why did she even continue in the attempt?  Perhaps, he thought, she is trying to keep her mind off the earl.

He should be glad that Claire wasn’t pining away for lost love. Still, if she insisted on being happy it was going to be a lot more difficult to get her back to town. Jody had considered his options at some length during the past few weeks. He’d been quite excited by his first idea, which was to forge a letter from the earl, asking Claire to join him in London. Jody had even written a trial draft or two, but–looking at the smudgy, ink-smeared sheets–he knew his sister would never be fooled. Besides, she surely knew Lord Tremayne’s handwriting a lot better than he did.

And arguing with Claire simply hadn’t worked. “This was the arrangement we agreed upon,” she told him every time he broached the subject. “Lord Tremayne lives in town, and I live here. No more arguments!”

Maybe she
is
happy, thought Jody. Maybe I should leave well enough alone.

* * * *

Lady Detweiler had played her part well, and the second waltz with Lord Tremayne now belonged to Pamela Sinclair instead of Lady Hansfort. As Pam danced off with Edward, she could see the annoyed widow out of the corner of her eye. Danilla was almost stamping her foot in frustration, with Amanda glued to her side, the picture of sympathetic innocence. Lady Detweiler was chatting away at top speed, talking to Danilla about . . . whatever it was that Amanda had insisted she
must
talk to her about.

Edward smiled down at Lady Pam. He was a marvelous dancer, and she felt herself gliding effortlessly across the floor. Pamela remembered the many waltzes she had shared with this man, and indulged a small pang of nostalgia. It really was a shame they had never managed to fall in love.

Edward was smiling down at her. “I’m glad you changed your mind,” he said.

“Changed my mind?  About what?”

“Dancing with me.”

“I decided it was time we discussed your love life,” Lady Pamela told him.

“Pam, no–” said the earl, a clear note of warning in his voice.

“Don’t cut up snappish with me, young man,” she said, and Edward laughed.

“I don’t
have
a love life at the moment,” he told her.

“You have a wife. Why are you not at Wrensmoor?” asked Pamela. She felt the sudden tension in Edward’s hands and saw the color that appeared on his cheekbones. Just a faint flush, of course–but she knew him too well to be fooled.

“I never planned on staying there. You knew that,” he told her.

“Fustian. I know that’s what you told me you
intended
.” she said to him. “It was nonsense then, and it’s nonsense now. You have an intelligent, beautiful wife. Why aren’t you with her?”

The earl wouldn’t meet Pam’s eye. “I . . . can’t,” he finally said.

This was a start, at any rate. But men seemed to have an inordinate lack of common sense when it came to their emotions. “You can’t what?  Be there?  Be with Claire?”

“Yes to both,” said Edward. “Pam, let’s not discuss this.”

“Ah!  What would you prefer to discuss, my darling?  The virtuous Lady Hansfort?”

He stared at her, then broke into a laugh. “Careful, Pam, I might think you’re jealous.”

“I,” said Lady Pamela, “am not your
wife
. I am merely curious. Claire Tremayne”–she saw him wince at the name–“is not only prettier than Danilla Hansfort, she is also better bred, better spoken, and–I might add–has some integrity of character.”

“Pam–”

“Be careful what you throw away, Edward,” she told him. “You might some day wish for it back.”

They danced on in silence, Pamela judging that for now she had said all she could. As the last strains of the waltz faded, Edward asked if she would like to join him for a stroll in the gardens. Fresh air was a relief after the stifling ballroom, and they walked along the raked gravel paths, listening to the sounds of the city in the distance. Several times the earl seemed about to speak, and Pam waited.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I don’t want Danilla Hansfort on my hands. I’m not sure why it ever seemed like a good idea.”

Still she said nothing.

“Chedley has been throwing one woman after another at me for a month now,” he added. “I couldn’t–none of them–”  He sighed.  “But it’s time, Pam,” he said. “I need to return to my old life.”

“Why?”

“It’s who I am.”

Pamela shook her head. A few yards away was a square of knotted herbs, and their clean scent perfumed the night air. She found a clipped hedge of rosemary and bent to pick a sprig.

“I don’t think it’s who you are at all. And if you were happy with your old life, why did you marry at all?”

“We’ve discussed this. I’ll need an heir eventually, and Claire de Lancie solved that problem quite neatly. I’m sure she’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“Is Claire increasing yet?”

“No,” said Edward, put off balance by the question. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, then–”

“Pam . . . ”

 She turned and walked away, annoyed with Edward for his stubbornness and feeling guilty for her own part in his marriage. She could have ignored Edward’s interest in finding out about the girl. But she had been so sure it was right, so sure that Claire de Lancie was the one for him. Had she been mistaken?   Was love–she laughed at the thought–was
true love
still in wait, somewhere, for the Earl of Ketrick? 

Perhaps it was, but she doubted love’s name was Danilla Hansfort.

* * * *

Cecil Drere and the viscount  were still at White’s when Edward arrived, although Cecil may not have been conscious. It was difficult to tell.

“Well, old man, how was the scrumptious Danilla?” asked Chedley. “Surely you’ve not conceded so early in the night?  I’d always heard she was quite . . . demanding. Not to mention athletic.”

The earl scowled and called for brandy. The viscount laughed and took a healthy swig from his own glass.

“Oh, come now, dear boy, this won’t do. I simply will
not
believe that the lady wouldn’t have you. It strains credulity.”

Edward made a suggestion concerning the viscount’s credulity.  Chedley was unfazed.

“We had high hopes for your association with the widow Hansfort,” he told the earl. “That wager in the betting book has crept up to five hundred pounds, you know.”

“
What
wager?” growled Edward.

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t heard. Quantity is the contest, my dear boy, quantity!   The wicked widow and the Earl of Ketrick are ripe for the prize, I’m sure. Nobody ever came close to you and the Huxley chit, even riding Pardy’s best. And with the delectable Danilla to keep you pointing skyward–”      

“Danilla Hansfort is a whore,” Edward said suddenly, a little surprised at his own vehemence. Even the viscount seemed taken aback. Cecil stirred to life and sat up.

“A whore?  Of course she is, old m-man,” hiccupped Lord Drere. “Good heavens, what do you think you’ve been looking for this past month?”

* * * *

As summer crept into autumn, Jody became convinced, despite himself, that Claire truly was content to live at Wrensmoor without Lord Tremayne. Her appetite was good, she laughed often–and she never complained. In fact, his sister rarely even alluded to the existence of a husband. So life at the castle was comfortable and easy, and they might never have gone back to London at all, had he not noticed Claire doodling one day at her writing desk.

She wrote regularly to her husband, Jody had discovered,  although, to his disappointment, these letters were devoted almost exclusively to estate business. Claire was concerned about continuing to make expenditures for the castle without the earl’s permission, a scruple which seemed perfectly absurd to her brother. He suspected that Claire could have purchased an entirely new stable of horses, and the gilt-covered carriages to go with them, without Lord Tremayne’s lifting an eyebrow.

The earl never answered Claire’s letters and, as far as Jody knew, she’d had no word from him since the day he left Wrensmoor. If he was my husband, thought Jody,
I’d
complain.

He found his sister in her study that morning, writing another short letter to be sent off to London. ’Twas the tapestries in the great hall this time, Jody learned. They’d been cleaned, but several of the oldest and most valuable ones needed repair. It was a dicey business, repairing old fabric, and this time Jody didn’t blame his sister for wanting to check with Lord Tremayne before arranging to have it done. Noble families tended to get puckish about their tapestries.

Afterwards, however, he noticed her staring pensively out the window, scrawling absentmindedly on a sheet of blotting paper. Jody waited until she left the room, and hurried over to the desk.

Edward, Claire had written. Edward. Edward. Edward.

That was enough for Jody.

* * * *

“Mmm, darling,” Danilla was saying, “this is so cozy.”  The earl’s carriage had plenty of room for more than the two people currently occupying it, but Lady Hansfort was almost sitting in Edward’s lap. “Don’t you want to come in for . . . tea?”

“No, thank you. Danilla–”

“Or you could have your man drive us somewhere.”  She was running light fingers up and down the taut fabric of his breeches, tracing the muscles of his thighs. “I find the motion of the carriage ever so stimulating, don’t you?”

“No. Danilla– ”

“Mmm.”  Lady Hansfort’s voice remained light and seductive, but inwardly she sighed. What would it take to get the man into bed?  Or into carriage, as it were. Danilla didn’t mind where the Earl of Ketrick took her, as long as he did so, and she was running out of patience. She knew Lord Tremayne’s reputation as a lover of great vigor and stamina, of course–it was one of the reasons she had chosen him for her first
affaire de coeur
after her husband’s death. But the earl’s legendary abilities
en rapports sexuels
would do her no good if he wouldn’t respond–

He
must
be responding, she decided.  This absurd, frustrating man had to be responding, and was just trying to hide it from her. Lady Hansfort found this a perplexing state of affairs. She was offering herself to the Earl of Ketrick as an energetic and talented bed partner, no strings attached.  Why, it would be most men’s dream. Certainly he couldn’t be worried about that silly chit of a wife, idling away in the wilds of Kent. What nonsense!  If
she
had him to herself in some draughty old castle he wouldn’t leave the bedroom for a month. The girl must be a positive antidote.

This is the end of it, she decided. She would give the earl another chance to seduce her and then look elsewhere. Lady Hansfort  was choosy about her partners, but not impossibly so, and there were plenty of strong, male fish in the London seas.

* * * *

Good heavens. Claire came to her feet, trembling, and stared at the heavy sheet of vellum in her hand. She shook her head to clear it, but the words remained obstinately the same, slanting across the page in Jody’s careful hand.

      
Ma cher soeur,

It is no use. I have tried and tried to forget her,

but I cannot. She is all I ever wanted, and I must prove

 myself worthy of her name. I have gone to London to

seek my fortune and I will not rest until I have made

her my wife.

       Do not search for me. I am sorry, dearest sister,

to cause you pain, but I am sure that when you finally

see her you will understand everything.

              -J.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The thought of her brother,  whose main interest only this past summer was seeing how far he could spit grape seeds, in the throes of a
grande passion
–oh, it was too much. Claire forced herself to take several slow, deep breaths. Perhaps she should simply let Jody get this out of his system. A flirtation in London might be better, come to think of it, than ending up in the hayloft with Flora or Constance. The girl must be from a good London family–

But even as Claire considered the matter, she realized the situation could not be that simple. It was, in fact, potentially quite serious.  As far as she knew, Jody had attended only a few entertainments in London. How had he met this girl?  And what girl of good family would be allowed to keep company with a fifteen-year-old boy who claimed no fortune?  Even as the Earl of Ketrick’s ward–for that, in effect, was Jody’s position–he was hardly of an age to be courting.

Oh. Goodness. Another possibility came abruptly to mind, and Claire’s blood flowed icy in her veins. What if this girl was some . . .some creature of the demi-monde?  What if Jody was being used, somehow, to extort money from Lord Tremayne?  She wasn’t sure why this possibility now struck her so forcibly, but she was suddenly terrified that her brother might– at this very moment–be in considerable trouble, and a cause of embarrassment to the Earl of Ketrick. She must stop this immediately. She must go to London.