Lady Eve's Indiscretion (8 page)

“Miss Georgina seemed to enjoy her uncle's company very much, as well as that of Lady Eve.”

He peered at Miss Ingraham a little more closely. She had fine gray eyes that were aimed directly at him, and a wide, generous mouth held in a flat, disapproving line.

“How much do I pay you, Miss Ingraham?”

She named a figure that would have kept Dolan's entire family of twelve in potatoes for a year, which was more a measure of their poverty than the generosity of her salary.

“Effective today, your salary is doubled. Start taking Miss Georgina to St. James's Park for her outings. That will be all.”

***

“Are you attending one of Papa's political meetings, or did Anna shoo you out from underfoot?”

Gayle Windham, the Earl of Westhaven, smiled at his sister's blunt question.

“Hello to you as well, Louisa.” He passed the reins of his horse off to a groom and glanced from Jenny to Louisa. “You two are up to something.”

Standing there arm in arm, the flower of genteel English womanhood, they exchanged a sororal look. That look spoke volumes, about who would say what to whom, in what order, and how the other sister would respond. Westhaven's sisters had been exchanging such looks as long as he could recall, and he still had no insight into their specific meanings.

His only consolation was that Maggie had once admitted there were fraternal looks that caused the same degree of consternation among the distaff.

“Walk with us.” Jenny slipped an arm through his, while Louisa strode along on his other side, a two-sister press gang intent on dragooning him into the mansion's back gardens.

“Don't mind if I do. I trust all is well with both of you?”

Jenny smiled at him, her usual gentle smile, which did not fool Westhaven for one moment. Genevieve Windham got away with a great deal on the strength of her unassuming demeanor, almost as much as Louisa got away with on the basis of sheer brass. He kept his peace, though. They'd reveal whatever mischief they were up to when they jolly well pleased to—and wheedling never worked anyway.

“What do we know of Lucas Denning's marital prospects?” Louisa fired her broadside without warning.

Westhaven stopped walking and shrugged off Jenny's arm. “Why do
we
want to know anything at all about such a topic? Among the five of you sisters, I'm fairly certain you could tell me how many teeth, how much blunt, and what type of cattle are associated with every titled bachelor in Polite Society.”

And how they knew such things was enough to unnerve even a very happily married man.

“He has all his teeth,” Jenny observed, linking her arm with Westhaven's again. “We understand the family coffers are a trifle… reduced, due to the late marquis's spending habits, and we know Deene owns a racing stud and keeps a nice stable here in Town. We want to know about his
prospects
.”

Westhaven took the liberty of seating himself on a bench near a patch of yellow tulips. “Haven't a clue, my dears.”

They were his sisters. Sometimes a little deliberate rudeness was necessary in pursuit of proper sibling relations.

Louisa put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “We aren't asking out of idle curiosity, you dolt. We
need
to know, and if you don't spill, I will simply ask Kesmore. Lucas was racketing about before the old marquis died, and then he went off ruralizing for his mourning, so our usual sources know very little. Is he looking to run in double harness?”

Every prospective duke ought occasionally to be referred to as a dolt, and it was apparently the sworn duty of the man's sisters to see to the matter.

“He has a title, Lou, and only the one second cousin to inherit. I'm fairly certain he'll be looking for a filly to run with him in double harness, as you so delicately refer to the state of holy matrimony.”

Another look passed from Jenny to Louisa—a smug, satisfied, so-there sort of look.

“What do you two think you know?”

Jenny sat beside him. “We know, Brother, that we saw Evie driving out with Deene, which would have been remarkable enough.”

He did not ask, for Louisa's expression confirmed she was dying to shock him further.

She took the remaining end of the bench. “We also know that when they came tooling back, there was Deene, reclining against the seat like the Caliph of Mayfair, and Evie handling the ribbons.”

Evie. Handling. The ribbons…
News, indeed.
Westhaven rose and turned to glower at them. “You will not remark this to Eve, and you will not tattle to Their Graces.”

“Too late.” Jenny looked worried now, and Louisa looked annoyed, which was her version of what others would call anxiety. “Mama came to the door to see us off on our perambulation, and she saw Evie driving Deene's team too.”

Bloody
hell.

“We need to warn Evie,” Westhaven muttered. This was what came from making purely social calls on one's parents, from heeding a wife's gentle admonitions to spend more time with his siblings.

Now the damned look was directed at him, and he knew very well what it meant. Jenny—ever anxious to be helpful—spelled it out for him anyway. “Yes, Brother,
we
do need to warn Evie.”

He left them there on the bench, no doubt hatching up more awkwardness for him to deal with. When it suited his family, he was the
heir
, the duke-in-training, and therefore called upon to handle whatever odd business nobody else wanted to handle.

He desperately hoped Their Graces lived to biblical ages to forestall the day when he graduated to the title altogether. While he was offering up a short prayer to that effect, he found Eve in the music room.

“Greetings, Sister.” She was sitting at the piano, the instrument dwarfing her petite presence.

“Gayle!” She hurried off the bench and hugged him tightly.

A man with five sisters did not dare admit to having favorites. He appreciated each of them for their various attributes: Maggie for her courage and brains; Sophie for her quiet competence and practicality; Louisa for her independence and well-hidden tender heart; Jenny for her determination and kindness.

But Evie… Evie was just plain lovable. Where Jenny smiled and dragged him about by the arm, or Louisa called him a dolt, Evie hugged him and called him by his name.

“Were you thinking to play an étude?” he asked, leading her to a settee against the wall.

“I was thinking to have some privacy. Shall I ring for a tray?”

“No, thank you. As soon as His Grace catches wind of my presence, I'll no doubt be sequestered in the ducal study with several trays, a decanter, and such a lengthy lecture on whatever damned bill is plaguing our sire at the moment that my appetite will desert me. You're in good looks, Evie.”

She was. Eve was an exquisite woman in a diminutive package, but today there was something a little rosier about her complexion, a little more animated in her bearing.

“I got some air, which on a spring day is never a bad idea. How is Anna?”

He was ever willing to expound on the topic of his countess, but he couldn't let Eve prevaricate that easily.

“You were out driving with Deene.”

Some of the life went out of her. “Are you going to castigate me for this? I know Lucas has a certain reputation among his fellows.”

“Every unmarried man of means at his age has a certain reputation among his fellows, whether it's deserved or not.” Though she had a point—at least before his travels, Deene had been somewhat profligate in his appetites.

Somewhat
profligate? Was there such a thing?

“He can be decent company.” Eve didn't seem to be defending the man so much as justifying her actions to herself.

“He has been a firm friend to this family, Evie. I do not raise the subject of your outing to criticize you in any way. I'm asking, rather, because I want to know what the man did that got you to take up the reins when, for seven years, everything your entire family has done in that direction has been unavailing, hmm?”

***

Gayle was going to be a superb duke. He had a kind of quiet perspicacity about him that fit well with the obligations of both an exalted title and being head of a large family. But he hadn't yet learned to hide from his eyes the hurt and puzzlement Eve saw virtually every time she caught her brother regarding her.

“I'm not sure what Deene did.” She rose from the sofa, and being a good brother, Gayle allowed her space by remaining seated. “I suppose it was what he didn't do.”

“I should also like to
not
do it, then, whatever it was, as would Louisa, Jenny, and—I regret to inform you—Her Grace.”

“Merciful heavens.”

He did rise, but ambled over to the piano bench, sat, closed the cover, and rested an elbow on it. “It's just a ride in the park, Evie. If you want my advice, go on as if it didn't happen.”

“Stare them down. One of Her Grace's favorite tactics.”

She settled beside him on the piano bench, realizing that she wanted to talk to somebody about this outing with Deene.

“He simply put the reins in my hands and jumped out of the vehicle before the horses had even come to a halt.” Recalling the moment brought a frisson of anxiety to her middle but also a sense of blooming wonder.

“He assumed you were capable of handling a team, which you are.”

Gayle was frowning, as if he, too, were puzzled.

“I am not.” She got to her feet. “I
was
not.” Again he let her wander the room while he watched her out of curious green eyes. Deene shared Westhaven's build—tall, a shade more muscular than lanky—but Westhaven had hair of a dark chestnut in contrast to Deene's blond, blue-eyed good looks.

“I assumed I wasn't capable,” she eventually clarified. “He proved me wrong, and I have never been happier to be wrong, it's just… why him?”

“Does it matter? You enjoyed an outing and learned something wonderful about yourself.”

As usual, the man's logic was unassailable.

“They're a lovely team, his geldings. Marquis and Duke. His stud colt is King William.” She felt sheepish recounting these details, almost as if she were confessing to Deene taking her hand or kissing her cheek.

“I've met His Highness, and if he's brought along properly, I agree with Deene he's a one-in-a-million horse. St. Just was quite taken with him as well.”

“Devlin is taken with anything sporting a mane and a tail.”

And then, with breathtaking precision, Westhaven made his point. “You were once too.”

Rotten
man. Rotten, honest, brilliant, brave man. How did Anna stand being married to such a fellow?

Eve sank onto the settee but did not meet her brother's gaze for some time. His four little true words were underscoring something Eve had long since stopped allowing herself to acknowledge: by eschewing her passion for all things equestrian, she'd firmly closed an unfortunate chapter of her life and minimized the possibility of any more severe injuries to her person.

She'd also given up one of her greatest joys and told herself it was for the best.

“I made a small misstep in my enthusiasm to take the reins,” she said.

Gayle waited. He was an infernally patient man.

“I did not want to be in Deene's debt, so I agreed to assist him in separating the sheep and goats among the Season's offerings on the marriage market. He has no sisters…” She fell silent rather than further justify her actions. She wasn't sure they
could
be justified, except on the odd abacus that had taken up residence between her and the Marquis of Deene.

“I'm sure he'll appreciate your aid in this regard, Evie.”

There was something ironic in Westhaven's comment, but not mean. Westhaven would never be mean to his siblings—probably not to anybody—but he could be quite stern and serious.

He got up, crossed the room, and paused to kiss Eve's forehead before he left for his appointment with the duke.

A good man, a wonderful brother, and even a dear friend.

And still, Eve hadn't told him she'd agreed to another outing with Deene. Hadn't told her sisters either.

***

Deene bit into a pastry only to pull the thing from his mouth and stare at it.

Stale as hardtack, not just inadvertently left sitting out for an hour.

“Something amiss, Cousin?” Anthony lounged at the foot of the table, the
Times
at his elbow and a steaming plate of eggs, kippers, and toast before him.

“Nothing that a few helpings of omelet won't set to rights.” Deene dug in, wondering vaguely why the
Times
wasn't sitting at his own elbow.

Anthony glanced up from the paper. “You're off to Surrey today?”

“I am, and in the company of three lovely ladies. Envy me.”

“Three? I'd heard you occasionally entertained two at once, but three is ambitious even for you.” Anthony topped off his teacup from the pot near his other elbow.

“My record is four, if you must know, Denning pride being what it is. And they all four had red hair. Pass the pot, would you?”

What an asinine waste of a night that had been, too. Five people hardly fit in a very large bed, for God's sake, even when stacked in various gymnastic combinations.

“Why ever would you attempt to please four women at once?” Anthony sounded genuinely intrigued as he slid the pot down the table.

“The idea was for them to please me—which they rather did—and to prove false a certain allegation regarding that dread condition known as whiskey dick in relation to a certain courtesy earl in the Deene succession.”

“I am agog at the lengths you've been forced to go to defend the family honor, Lucas.”

Anthony went back to his paper, in case his ironic tone hadn't underscored the point clearly enough. Just when Deene might have helped himself to more eggs, Anthony looked up again. “Which three ladies will you entertain today?”