Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“Whatever you believe you saw or heard is none of my concern. I am the earl’s guest, not his censor.”

“That is my point. You are his guest, and shall be tainted with the same red mark.”

She was not the one with jam on her chin. She stood. “I will not listen to more of your carping about reputations and loose morals.”

He stood too, looking at the last piece of toast with regret. “You might be too innocent to see through the man’s polished charm, and too trusting of his hospitality, but I am not, no longer. Mad Dog Marden is no fit companion for a lady, I say, and I can prove it. He was at a hotel last night.”

“Yes, he felt he should sleep elsewhere, to protect that selfsame reputation of mine that has you so disturbed. You see, he is a considerate man, giving up his own comfort to satisfy your—”

“He was with a woman.”

That gave Athena pause, and a sharp pain in the region of her heart, which she would never let Mr. Wiggs see. She pushed in her chair. “That is no business of mine. Or yours. And what were you doing, anyway, I should like to know, following the earl about like some sneak thief?”

“I was not following him. He chose my hotel for his scandalous tryst.”

“Bosh, a coincidence only. Had his lordship known you were staying at McKinnon’s Hotel, I am certain he would have gone anywhere else. I suppose he happened to select that one because he was less well-known there, and wanted to draw the least attention to his presence. Had he put up at the Clarendon or the Pulteney or the Grand, tongues would have wagged, asking the very questions he wished to avoid by leaving his home.”

“So you say, persisting in believing the best of that libertine despite the indisputable evidence. I was in the very next private parlor, and I heard them, I say.”

“You listened to a man and his…lady friend?” Athena found Wiggy’s eavesdropping more appalling than the earl’s philandering. She never expected Marden to be a monk; she never expected a would-be vicar to be a voyeur.

Wiggy’s ears turned red, bringing attention to the fact that they stuck out slightly. “I could not help myself. They were in the adjoining room, with the windows open, you see.”

“I see nothing but a gentleman being maligned for conversing with a woman, and another gentleman—one who ought to know better—being quick to cast the first stone. You saw nothing, and should have heard nothing.”

“I do not call it nothing when I recognized the female’s voice, even though she tried to disguise it with huskier tones. Come-hither tones, they were.”

“Come-hither?”

Now Wiggs’s whole face was the color of the jam smear. “They were trysting, I say. To say more would be indelicate in a lady’s presence.”

“Then perhaps you have said enough already.”

“I have not said nearly enough. Your saintly earl was entertaining Lady Throckmorton-Jones in that private parlor, by Jupiter.”

“His lordship was having supper with…Lady Throckmorton-Jones?” Athena repeated.

“Yes, and the woman had no German accent again. Your so-called chaperone is nothing but Marden’s mistress after all, Miss Renslow. You have to come away this very morning, before they rouse from their foul love nest.”

Athena sank back into her chair.

“You see, I knew you would be shocked. I regret having to sully your innocent ears with such lewdness, but my duty to your brother and my concern for your welfare forces me to speak.”

Athena had heard enough. More than enough. She took a deep breath. “I am shocked. I am shocked at the lengths you will go to discredit the earl, who has been a godsend to me and my brother. No, there is no Princess Hedwig. And there is no Lady Throckmorton-Jones. Lord Marden and his friend Mr. Carswell were trying to shield me from gossip, because you seemed intent on stirring up the hornet’s nest.”

“There was no chaperone? Only another scoundrel in skirts?”

“There was no chaperone, and none was needed, except in your opinion. I have ceased caring about your estimation of my character, for I realize you will never understand that my reputation means nothing compared to Troy’s welfare. I shall not lie anymore.”

“There was no chaperone? Lady Throckmorton-Jones was a man?”

“That is correct. And I shall not force the poor earl into taking up residence at a second-class hotel.”

“It is good enough for me.”

“Exactly. I do not wish to hear any more on this matter. In fact, I do not wish to speak with you again, Mr. Wiggs.” She stood beside the open door, waiting for him to exit through it. “And I do not care what you write to my older brother, either.”

“You are wrong, Miss Renslow. You will care when I write the viscount to announce an end to our understanding.”

“You might save your announcement, sir, for you are the one mistaken. We had no understanding. You shall never comprehend my devotion to my brother, nor, it seems, my gratitude to Lord Marden. And I shall never understand how you could care more for public opinion than for the person you wish to wed. For that matter, I cannot comprehend why you would wish to bind yourself to a woman you consider so lost to propriety, or how you think affection can grow from distrust and diatribes. I certainly do not wish to marry a martyr to manners. I bid you good day, sir.”

After the butler handed her caller his hat and gloves, Athena said, “I shall not be at home to Mr. Wiggs in the future, Mr. Hull.”

The butler bowed. “Very good, miss. Very, very good, if I might say so.”

“But he is still my brother’s temporary guardian, so he cannot be denied visiting Troy.”

“More bad luck for the unfortunate young man.”

“Of course, Troy is sleeping a great deal.”

“As he must, to hasten his recovery. I shall be sure to inform the reverend gentleman of that when he calls. Master Renslow shall not be disturbed.”

“Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

Ian bounded up the front steps. “Wiggs seemed more put out than usual when I passed him. Is everything all right?”

“Miss Renslow put him out,” the butler replied for Athena. “Out of the door. Finally.”

“Ah, then congratulations are in order.”

“No,” she said. “We have agreed that we do not suit.”

He smiled. “Which is precisely why congratulations are called for. Champagne, I think, Hull. In the library.”

As Ian led her down the hall, he asked, “By the way, did you hit him?”

“No, that was jam.”

“Too bad.”

Once they were alone in the library, Ian watched her staring out the window at the rear garden. He could not tell what she was thinking, so had to ask. “It is not every day a lady shows her suitor the door. Are you going to cry?”

“No, I think I am going to sing.”

He remembered her lack of musical ability. “Gads, that is almost as bad.”

Athena laughed. “I will not sing then, but I might dance.” She twirled in a circle, her arms out. “I am free, free as a bird, at last. I might have thrown away my best chance, but I would rather have no choices than make one out of desperation.”

“Wiggs was about as desperate as they come,” he agreed. “He only wanted your money and your brother’s influence, anyway.”

“And I only wanted the security marriage to him could give, so my motives were not much better than his. Neither of us pretended to an affection we did not feel, although I had once hoped that tender feelings might develop. They never did, and never could. So now I am relieved.”

Ian was, too, surprising himself. Wiggs had been the only thing standing between him and doom.

“Yes,” she was going on in a happy, lilting voice, “now I do not have to marry without love.”

Doom shook Ian’s hand.

Chapter Eleven

A mistress is more fun than a wife.

—Anonymous

A mistress has more fun than a wife.

—Mrs. Anonymous

Time was a peculiar thing. First Ian wanted the hour hands to back up, to start over again before the duel. Now he wanted them to slow to a tick-tocking crawl, so slow that tomorrow was a week away. In fact, if tick never followed tock, that was too soon to face eternity.

He had a few days, Ian told himself. He had not yet heard from her older brother, and her uncle was not in town. With no male relation to consult, he was given a temporary reprieve. He did not count the captain’s man Macelmore.

He called at Cameron Street to ask about the captain’s arrival, and chanced on encountering Macelmore on his way out. The earl ended up promising that no harm had—or ever would—befall Miss Renslow. Thunderation, now he was near to pledging his troth to a one-eyed old pirate, in plain view of all of London! He changed the subject, and the direction of Macelmore’s ire, to that groom, Alfie Brown.

The man had shown up, Macelmore told him, spitting on the ground not far enough from Ian’s boots, looking for his back pay. He’d gone after the horse, Alfie said, because that was his job, and because he needed it to get the boy home, anyway. Once he found the nag, he’d lost the lad, so went out and got drunk, knowing he’d lost his post, too. He woke up robbed and beaten and ashamed, not remembering much else.

“Nothing about the accident that unhorsed Master Renslow?”

“Alfie allowed as how he were watching the nobs, not the nipper.”

If the man had been watching the duel, he knew exactly what had happened. Why had Brown not mentioned it to Macelmore, Ian wondered. Even more curious, why had the groom not shown up on Ian’s doorstep, demanding blood money for his silence? Something was wrong with the man’s story, but Ian would not borrow trouble. Lord knew, he had enough of it on his plate now.

Meantime, Lady Throckmorton-Jones stayed gone. So did Princess Hedwig. Ian reclaimed his Kensington house so he had a private place to go to ponder his sins and his coming atonement.

His mother still claimed an ague; his sister was still not returned from her journey north; and the boy still frequently hovered in drugged stupor. He was no worse, but not much better that Ian could see. He could move his legs, Ian knew, which he took for a good sign. When Lord Marden suggested the cub might grow stronger with a bit of fresh air, a little exercise, though, Athena looked at him as if he’d proposed tossing her brother in the Thames to swim, naked.

Ian knew how he would feel, stuck in bed with no form of activity, with nothing but books to break the monotonous cycle of pain and sleep. He’d be throwing the volumes across the room, he would, even his favorite horse books. Ian admired the young man’s fortitude, his stoic acceptance of the surgeon’s orders, but he vowed to get Troy down the stairs and out of doors as soon as Miss Renslow’s back was turned.

She never seemed to leave the sickroom long enough, however. In fact, other than the few minutes she walked the dog in the garden, the only time she could be counted on being apart from her brother was during dinner, which she took with Lord Marden. He feared she would not eat enough otherwise, or that she would sicken from being in that overwarm bedchamber so long, so he had insisted she join him in the dining room. He tried his best to make her feel at ease there, with the door always left open, and he left immediately after, making sure to be seen at his clubs and social engagements. Word was out that Miss Renslow and her injured brother were staying at his house. Word was also out that he was not.

He had managed to slow time, after all.

*

Athena was watching the clock, too. How long could she stay on here, enjoying the earl’s hospitality? His lordship assured her she was welcome for as long as Troy’s recuperation took, but she felt like an intruder, forcing him to leave his own house.

She did not have to seek a position yet, she had decided—not until she had spoken to her uncle. If he were willing to release the dowry he held in trust for her, a dowry she would never need now that she was declared unmarriageable by Mr. Wiggs, then she might be able to afford a tiny cottage somewhere, or genteel lodgings here in town, if Uncle Barnaby did not want her at his residence.

She was not going to go back to Derby and her sister-in-law’s carping—that, Athena vowed. She was uncertain if Lady Rensdale would even permit her to return, now that her reputation was in shreds. Mr. Wiggs would have told his tale well, and Veronica would make sure everyone in the neighborhood knew of Miss Renslow’s fall from grace, and wasn’t she the gracious one, allowing that baggage to sully her own sterling name? If Veronica did allow her husband’s sister to come home, she would make Athena’s life a misery, more so than before. Veronica would expect a fallen woman to hide away from country society, to be grateful for whatever crumbs came her way. She would expect Athena to tolerate any unkindness without complaint, for the sake of having a roof over her head and Troy at her side. Athena could not do it.

How she would manage without her brother to care for, Athena did not know, and dreaded the idea. She wished him a quick recovery, of course, but counted the days until she had to send him home, without her.

Meanwhile she kept herself busy at Troy’s bedside, reading to him, playing cards and chess when he was able, working at her embroidery when he slept. She took Roma to the rear gardens but no farther, not liking to leave the house. She did not want to be away when Troy awoke, and she did not want to face the earl’s neighbors. The ladies might pull their skirts aside when she passed. The gentlemen might turn their backs or issue lewd suggestions. Even the neighboring servants might show disrespect for a woman so lost to propriety as to lodge alone under a bachelor’s roof.

The earl’s own servants were friendly and kind, with not an ounce of insolence. Perhaps she was being overcautious, or Mr. Wiggs was being overbearing in his outrage, but Athena would not want to chance an encounter with another stranger’s scowls. Besides, she did not wish to make the earl more of a target for gossip than he already was.

At home she would have filled every hour with chores and tenant visits, with social calls and Troy’s classes. There she took long walks, frequent carriage drives, almost daily rides on horseback. In fact, Athena spent as little time at Renslow Hall, under Veronica’s narrowed eyes, as possible. Here at Maddox House, her daily life was the opposite, yet she was never bored. How could she be, when she was so busy falling in love?