Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (11 page)

By the end of summer, back in London, they were no closer to Johna’s goal of seeing her sister dance at Almack’s. Johna had overestimated the value of her father’s title and underestimated the stench of Sir Otis’s. She thought of hiring one of those well-connected ladies of the
ton
who, for a fee, acted as chaperone, social mentor, matchmaker. If they were so well-connected, though, Johna couldn’t help wondering, why did they need to hire out their services? Besides, she couldn’t bear putting herself under the thumb of some prune-faced dragon. Not yet.

Johna wasn’t giving up her reputation, her independence, or her dreams for her sister’s future. Not yet. Instead she called in her markers.

2

D
uty and dignity. Those were words a man could live by. A dainty morsel like the Black Widow was a delight a man would cheerfully die for. Merle Spenser, Viscount Selcrest, tapped Johna’s thick vellum note against his booted leg as he sat in his library, thinking. And smiling.

Oh, the viscount had noticed the stunning widow in Brighton, all right. A man would have to be deader than that dirty dish Ogden not to notice her. Like every other man in Brighton, Selcrest had even tried to strike up a conversation with the dasher, at the library one day, at the jeweler’s on another occasion. Both times she’d turned her fine-boned shoulder and ignored him with a faint tilt to her rose-petal lips. His grandmother the duchess couldn’t have depressed his pretensions more elegantly or with more finality. The chit had style.

She also had a younger sister in tow, a pretty bit of fluff and frill. The reluctant consensus among the sporting gentlemen in Prinny’s circle was that the widow wouldn’t be entertaining any proposals—honest or otherwise—while chaperoning the girl. Even before Selcrest entered the lists, enough money to pay half the Regent’s debts had been wagered and lost on which lucky swell would capture this so-ripe plum. Odds changed when the well-breeched, well-favored viscount took the field, only to go down in ignoble defeat.

And now, that same speedily dispatched challenger to the widow’s supposed virtue wondered, what had changed her mind? Had she sent the sister back to school or off to the country? Or had she finally realized she’d never reach respectability, not with the baggage she carried? Marrying a disreputable old man for his money and then, rumor had it,
killing
him to get it sooner was not a high recommendation. There were at least four loose screws in Brighton who needed her blunt badly enough to marry Johna, Lady Ogden, despite the
on-dits.
She hadn’t given them the time of day either. And she hadn’t sent for them in London.

Viscount Selcrest had a broad chest. It swelled a tad broader as he called for another tub and shave—his second of the day. His only problem, as he sat in his sandalwood-scented bath, was the wording of her message: Could he please call at his earliest convenience, on a family matter. A female like Lady Otis Ogden had nothing to do with his family. Not ever.

Duty and dignity meant everything to the viscount. Granted he hadn’t gotten around to marrying and filling his nursery but, ’struth, he was only twenty-eight and did have his brother Denton to ensure the succession. Other than that
min
or detail, he tried to lead an exemplary life, guarding the family honor as zealously as he protected his property and dependents. Perhaps because of his own unfortunate beginnings, Merle firmly believed that his sons had as much right to inherit a good name as a good income. The viscount was a conscientious landlord, a dedicated member of Parliament, and a devoted son to his widowed mother. He wasn’t a gambler, a drunkard, or a womanizer—not by the measure of the day, at least. That’s where discretion mattered.

And that was why the viscount stepped down from his curricle two blocks from the address on Albemarle Street and handed the reins to his tiger. “Keep walking them around the square. I’ll find you when I have concluded my business.”

Contrary to his preconceptions, Merle was impressed with the widow’s home. The entry was light and airy, furnished in the best of taste with priceless Chinese vases filled with flowers and a Turner scene he’d love to own. The liveried footmen were properly deferential as they accepted his hat and gloves, and the be-wigged butler’s backbone was as starched as his shirtpoints as he announced that, yes, milady was receiving.

Here was another surprise: she wasn’t receiving him alone. The sister sat on the sofa beside the widow, sharing the latest issue of
La Belle Assemblee.
A
pretty little filly, Merle noticed in passing. Too bad she came from such a dicey stable. While the widow asked his preference for refreshment and gave directions to the butler, Selcrest made a mental list of suitable chaps to match the gel to, one of his local squire’s sons out in Suffolk, or a distant cousin in the Horse Guards who needed a rich bride-price to further his career. The chit’s future settled to his satisfaction—and his convenience—Merle turned his attention to the widow. “Yes, the weather is cool for this season,” he agreed, thinking that she was even more lovely than he remembered. She wore a gray-striped cambric gown with a black shawl draped casually over her shoulders. With her black hair and magnolia skin, she looked good enough to undress.

The poker-backed butler returned with a tea cart and two maids. While they were busy positioning the plates of poppy seed cake, macaroons, and raspberry tarts, Johna took time to observe her guest. She congratulated herself on picking just the right name from Sir Otis’s strongbox. Lord Selcrest was as polished as a fine diamond, hard-planed yet vibrant with an inner glow. He had the self-assurance of a born nobleman and more than a tinge of the haughtiness she’d noted in Brighton. And yes, he still had that raffish smile, as if his brown eyes could see beneath her clothes. Johna tugged her shawl closer. “Do you take lemon in your tea? Sugar?”

“Just sugar, please. One lump.”

Johna busied herself pouring and stirring and passing plates until all three of them were served and the butler and maids were dismissed. “Phillipa, dearest, perhaps his lordship would enjoy some music while we chat,” she suggested, indicating the pianoforte at the far end of the well-appointed room.

Phillipa obediently took her cup and a third raspberry tart and sweetly asked if he had any favorite pieces.

Other than raspberry tarts, Selcrest wanted to say, he favored elegant widows, so she should play anything long and loud. “I’m sure whatever you select will be charming, Miss Hutchison.” When she moved off, with still another tart, the viscount resumed his seat on the cane-back chair, nudging it slightly nearer the sofa, the widow, and the platter of pastries. “A lovely girl, ma’am. And you have a fine cook.”

Johna smiled. “And you’re likely wishing them both to perdition right now.”

“What, am I that transparent, my lady? I had hoped to make your acquaintance in Brighton, so naturally I was delighted at your invitation to call. I was hoping we could come to some agreement.”

Merle was hoping he hadn’t rushed his fences despite her candor, so he was relieved when the widow said, “Good. I am hopeful of that myself.” Then, before he could inch his chair a bit nearer, she surprised him yet again with, “Did you know my husband, Lord Selcrest?”

“Why, no, I never had the, ah, pleasure.” He’d sooner eat nails than go near a Captain Sharp like Ogden.

“But you knew of him, surely?”

“Yes, but—”

“I was going through some of his papers and came upon this note.” She pulled a paper from the journal at her side and handed it to him. “I believe it to be your brother’s. Am I correct?”

There it was, as big as life,
Denton Spenser.
The amount scrawled under the unmistakable IOU was bigger than life. Bigger than Den’s yearly income, for sure. The viscount was staggered by the sum. He knew his scapegrace brother was running with a rackety crowd, but to fall into the clutches of a makebate like Otis Ogden? And not consult Merle, or ask his help? That was a crushing disappointment when he’d
striven so hard to be head of the family. Then his lordship realized an even larger disappointment. “So you didn’t invite me here to…”

“To throw myself at your feet, to ask you to make a scarlet woman out of me, to beg your protection against the cold, cruel world? To—”

“Enough! I beg your pardon if I have offended you with unwarranted assumptions.” Thunderation, Merle could feel his cheeks growing warm, the first time a woman had confounded him in years.

“But you don’t think they are unwarranted, do you? Everyone believes Sir Otis’s wealthy young widow must be a trollop, so naturally you supposed I’d be amenable to your suggestions.”

The bitterness in her voice was unanswerable, and the sadness. He reached for another raspberry tart rather than look her in the eyes with a lie. When the silence became uncomfortable, even with the Bach in the background, the viscount smoothed Denton’s note on his thigh. If the widow was too virtuous to join the muslin company, what was she doing taking over her husband’s loan-sharking? Merle’s compassion for her plight died aborning. He’d redeem the vowel, of course. Devil take him if he’d let some harpy get her talons into his little brother.

As if reading his mind, or his sneer, Johna quietly explained, “When I found the voucher I did not write to Mr. Spenser. I had heard that he is always pockets to let and I did not want to send such a young man to the moneylenders.”

Selcrest acknowledged her meager benevolence with a curt nod. “I don’t carry that much of the ready. Will a check do?”

“I do not want the money, my lord.” She waved one delicate hand at the room, the house, and all its splendor. “I have more than enough wealth for my needs. I do, however, require something that only you can provide.”

Now this was more the thing, Merle thought. She wasn’t calling in the chit, she was begging a favor. After which minor feat of dragon-slaying, the damsel would likely fall into his arms in gratitude. “I am at your service,” he said with that lopsided smile that left no doubt as to what service he’d like to render.

“What I’d like”—she paused while the viscount helped himself to the last raspberry tart—“is an introduction to your mother.”

“My mo—” The notion so startled the viscount that he swallowed wrong. He coughed, or choked, or perhaps laughed.

In any other household, a gentleman might be gently slapped on the back or politely offered a drink of water. Not in this household, not now. Johna leaped to her feet, upsetting her teacup. “Oh no, not again! Pippy, come quickly!”

And then, before Lord Selcrest could swallow the rest of the tart so he could speak up, young Miss Hutchison had rushed over and grabbed his arms over his head, shouting at her sister to remember what Dr. Browne had advised, too late. Her sister did remember, the whole nightmare of her husband’s sudden departure. So she drew back her fist and with all her might belted the viscount in the stomach, right below the ribs.

In the ordinary course of events, her fist would have bounced off his lordship’s rigid muscles. He worked out with Gentleman Jackson and fenced with Monsieur Lamartine. But he wasn’t sparring or parrying; he was sitting in an attractive female’s parlor, eating raspberry tarts. The impact of Johna’s fist sent the air straight out of
him
. It also sent the cane-back chair toppling over, with Merle in it, so his head struck the floor right where the thick carpet ended.

“My stars, Jo, you’ve killed him!”

Johna was on the floor beside the viscount, loosening his neckcloth, shaking his shoulders, and drenching him with tears. “You can’t die! Oh, please wake up, my lord. Please please please.” And she took to slapping his face. Merle was seeing a dozen Lady Ogdens and feeling a million slaps on his aching head. So he made a grab for her hands, which pulled her off balance and onto his chest. So he kissed her, which seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It certainly made his head feel better.

Johna pulled out of his arms with a gasp. Whether from relief that he was alive, humiliation at her actions, or indignation at his, Johna was incensed. She hauled back that same deadly right and punched the viscount in the jaw. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and made her feel a great deal better. Of course it bounced Merle’s head on the hardwood floor again.

This time when he awoke Lady Johna was sending her sister to fetch the brandy decanter, thank God. Merle slowly managed to drag himself to a sitting position while Phillipa poured a wavery stream into the tilting glass Johna held, their hands were shaking so badly. The viscount reached out to take the glass before they spilled the whole bottle, only to see the elegant widow down the shot in one swallow.

He had to laugh. “Mama’s going to love you.”

“Then you’ll do it? You’ll help?”

Phillipa handed him another glass. “He has to help; we saved his life.”

“Saved my life? Bloody hell, you damn near killed me.”

“You took liberties,” was all Johna said as she helped him to his feet and onto the sofa.

“It was a dying man’s last wish.”

“Fustian.”

He smiled. “Have you never heard of the kiss of life? It worked.”

“Rubbish.”

“But lovely rubbish, if I remember correctly. Of course I wasn’t in any position to truly appreciate your efforts at reviving me. Perhaps you’d care to—”